


The Leonardo Effect

by phoenike



Series: The Leonardo Effect [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:32:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenike/pseuds/phoenike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Ezio’s best knowledge, Leonardo's idea of debauchery was staying up until morning with a bottle of wine and too many sketching supplies. But why would the gondolier have lied? It was a heavy accusation. In both Firenze and Venezia, mere allegations of unnatural conduct had condemned men to be pilloried or hanged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】The Leonardo Effect/莱昂纳多效应](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116833) by [Chlokers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chlokers/pseuds/Chlokers)



> I've taken liberties with details of timeline and setting and characters and... well, pretty much everything has been headcanoned somehow. The story contains some (mild-ish) het, and the m/m takes its sweet time to develop. As usual, this got way more plotty than I'd originally planned.
> 
> "Da Vinci" is not really a surname, it means "from Vinci". So yes, I know the usage is sometimes incorrect. Also, I don't know Italian, if you notice something awkward, go ahead and tell me. I'm friendly.
> 
> This has been beta read by Elenilote & lately also EasternViolet, thank you my dears! I don't always take their advice, any errors are my own.
> 
> I don't warn for everything. While this is a consensual love story, not all of the sex scenes are overtly consensual.

**_La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia 1482_ **

Ezio was finally getting somewhere with the innkeeper's pretty daughter. When she almost pushed her bosom in his face when refilling his mug, he knew three nights of dark looks from beneath his hood and purred _molte grazie, bellissimas_ were about to pay off. After spending most of the day on horseback, traveling to his mark and back, he could have done with a bath and a change of clothes, but if fate so decided, a quick tumble in the pantry in his grimy gear was definitely not beneath him.

And then a drunken gondolier behind him raised his voice above the drone of other patrons in the crowded tavern, and all went to hell.

“It is the God’s own truth,” the man proclaimed, his Venetian so thick Ezio could barely follow. “That painter from Vinci is a lover of boys. A sodomite.”

“ _Chiudi il becco! Sei fuori come un balcone._ ”

But the gondolier was too gone with drink or indignation to listen to his fellows. “Ha! You’d sing a different _canzone_ if you knew what I know. Why do you think so many young models are paid to visit artists’ workshops? Do you think that only brushes are wielded behind their closed doors? No pretty boy is safe from those vile beasts —”

White-knuckled, Ezio struck his knife half an inch into the table. The crimson Medici cape swirled as he rose and turned. But the speaker did not notice. Only his friends saw to their horror who had listened to them from a secluded corner of the tavern. Everyone in Venezia knew the young assassin, and of his friendship with maestro da Vinci.

“ _Per amore di Cristo_ ,” one of the men begged. “Shut your trap, man, if you want to live!”

The gondolier waved his sloshing tankard. “Shut yer own trap! Why would I keep silent of the truth? That dirty _rottinculo_ should be hanged like the rest of his kind —”

Ale splashed across the floor as a cestus-covered hand grabbed the man by his collar, pulled him from the bench and slammed him against the wall. A woman screamed. Then all was still. The Fiorentino’s face, shadowed by a deep white hood, bent close to the gondolier's own.

“ _Per favore_ ,” Ezio said in the common tongue, his voice like velvet over a blade’s edge. “Speak. But lie, and it will be the last thing you do.”

The gondolier wetted his breeches, but did not faint. “ _È vero, è vero, assassino_!” he cried, sobered by terror. “I swear by my honor! I got it all from my cousin. He’s a guard at the Palazzo della Signoria in Firenze. Ser da Vinci and two other men plowed a rented boy together. They spent two months in prison and were acquitted only because of family ties with the Medicis. It happened many years ago. You cannot kill me for telling the truth!”

Ezio bared his teeth. “ _Miserabile pezzo di merda..._ You speak of my brother, _bastardo!_ ” His fingers tightened on the gondolier’s throat. The man made a croaking sound, before making no sound at all. In panic he reached for his dagger, but Ezio caught his wrist, and the blade clattered to the floor.

Beneath the hood, Ezio’s face was a mask of rage. The gondolier started to turn a disturbing shade of purple.

Then, reluctantly, the assassin eased his grip. “Get out of my sight,” he muttered, and let go. The gondolier fell, coughing and wheezing, and crawled under the nearest table, relieved (and perhaps surprised) to have kept his life.

When Ezio turned, the other patrons backed away. No one ran; no one dared to cry for help. Fear stank up the place worse than the gondolier’s piss. Even the lusty wench who only moments ago had warmed his loins with bold glances now stared at him like he was death incarnate, hand frozen in a gesture to ward off evil.

No matter. He’d lost his appetite for her as thoroughly as for his food. Ezio retrieved his knife, tossed a couple of _denari_ beside his plate on the table, and left.

The early winter chill of the lagoon city hung thick with the smell of canals and refuse. Ezio could almost taste the plague brewing in it, heavy and damp over the narrow streets crowded with people and animals. Beyond a corner, he scaled a wall to the top of a building, where wind blew away some of the stench and the evening sun could shine from between the clouds. After wandering the red rooftops for a moment, he was almost able to breathe again.

 _Ser da Vinci and two other men plowed a rented boy together._ A disgusting, outrageous lie. Leonardo was the most honorable man Ezio knew. His thoughts moved in superlunary spheres, far from common people’s vulgar embarrassments. To Ezio’s best knowledge, his friend’s idea of debauchery was staying up till morning with a bottle of wine and too many sketching supplies. But why would the gondolier have lied? It was a heavy accusation. Both in Firenze and Venezia, mere allegations of unnatural conduct had condemned men to be pilloried or hanged. Leonardo had no enemies — no one would have profited from maligning him. His slanderer would have had to face the wrath of his patrons, the greatest of which was none other than the illustrious Lorenzo de’ Medici.

It had to be some kind of misunderstanding.

Ezio had intended to prowl the roofs without a destination, but soon he found himself standing over the small square in San Polo where Leonardo’s new workshop was located.

As usual those days, a flock of hopefuls had gathered behind the maestro’s door to pester his assistant for a moment of his time. Ezio had no intention of joining the crowd. He leaped from a roof to another. For a second his shadow fell among the people on the square. Some raised their heads, but he’d already dropped onto a balcony and blended in the shadow at its back.

He’d knocked on Leonardo’s door too often to remember. Now, for the first time, he hesitated. Why? As opposed to most nights, he even had a perfectly legitimate reason to come, in the form of an old parchment roll inside his coat — not that he really needed an excuse to visit his friend. And still he just stood there, unable to continue.

Suddenly the door opened. A man stepped into the sunlight at the other end of the balcony, athletic and taller than Ezio by several inches. Below on the square people cried out and pointed. The man bowed slightly, a palm held over his heart. His admirers cheered and a young _signora_ fainted. “Oh dear,” the man sighed, drawing straight again, and patted his chalk-stained hands on the linen robe that protected his clothes. Perhaps he’d come to enjoy the evening sun after spending the whole day at work inside.

Ezio stood transfixed and stared at his friend’s clean-cut profile as if seeing it for the first time.

o o o

_Fair hair is not completely unknown in Firenze, but usually it is the result of vanity and bleach. This man has clearly been blessed with it from birth. In the sun, his flowing tresses and short, neat beard shine like dark gold. His skin is light and freckled, unmarred by the pox, and he has the most unusual eyes, laughing and pale blue like the little Madonna’s eye flowers in Ezio’s mother’s garden. His face seems the kind that lends itself far more easily to joy and curiosity than somber sentiment._

_He bends to kiss Madonna Maria’s cheeks and seems genuinely delighted to make her son’s acquaintance. He doesn’t look much more than twenty, but when he speaks, Ezio realizes he has to be older. Clearly a man leading a very healthy life, he’s well turned out in spotless half-boots, blue hose, a tall red sugarloaf hat and a pleated, belted tunic of maroon samite, with slits down the sleeves for fine white lawn to show. The growth of hair on his chin is nowhere near as fashionable as his clothes, for most gentlemen strive to keep their faces shaven, but Ezio admits that without it, he might seem almost too pretty._

_Seventeen and used to running errands for his parents, Ezio thinks nothing of playing the part of a porter boy. He follows his mother and the da Vinci fellow the few blocks that separate Verrocchio’s workshop from the Auditore house. The painter sure likes to talk and Ezio’s mother seems uncharacteristically obliging. Ezio himself spends most of his time scanning the crowd for pretty girls, picking up only stray bits of conversation._

_Soon a promising giggle catches his ear, but when he turns his head, ready to give the lucky_ ragazza _his most charming smile, he sees that her attention is glued on the painter, instead._ “Merda,” _Ezio mutters, not used to competition. She’s an unusually fine specimen, too, a young_ gentildonna _accompanied by an abbé and a few maidservants and friends. Ezio follows the direction of her eyes, expecting to see the painter smile back at her, but to his surprise the man just prattles on, completely oblivious. What the_ diavolo _is he talking about? Water pipes? What does a painter know of engineering? And how on Earth can it be more important than the attentions of an eager, willing and beautiful young lady with breasts like two soft doves?_ _Ezio sighs as they round a corner and the pretty noblewoman disappears from view._

_Good looks are completely wasted on some people, Ezio thinks. He vows never to misuse his own._

_When they arrive at the courtyard of Casa Auditore, he has a chance to take another look at the painter. He has to admit that the man is exceptionally handsome. No way has Verrocchio kept someone like that around to mix paint, prepare panels and scribble chubby_ putti _at the edges of his paintings. That smile, above all else... Not that it has an effect on Ezio, who is a manly man, but it’s easy to see how it could affect some others. Well, at least with that kind of face and figure, female clients are bound to flock behind Ser da Vinci's door, even if he paints like a five-year-old. As if to prove the point, Ezio’s own mother appears abominably smitten, to her son’s bewilderment. She’s usually a very sensible woman._

_“I’ve considered commissioning him for portraits of our family,” she says when the painter is gone. “But he has trouble finishing anything he’s started. He’s interested in far too many things to devote himself to one project.”_

_“I see,” Ezio says. “Sounds like he isn’t satisfied with just one outlet, either.”_

“Sfacciato!” _She swats her smart-mouthed son with a fan, but cannot completely conceal her amused smile._

_Later Ezio helps to hang the paintings in the gallery. His mother tells him that at her behest, one of them has been mostly painted by da Vinci. Over the next days, Ezio finds himself coming back to watch that piece in awe, ashamed of his suspicion of the man’s talent. From the marriage of wood to linseed oil, pigment and turpentine, angels with secretive smiles look back, more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen._

“Ezio! _Benvenuto!_ Why do you stand there so silent, _scimmietta?_ ”

Few would have dared to call a killer of Ezio’s reputation a little monkey, but the greatest painter in Italy was not bothered by such trivialities.

“ _Mi dispiace_. You must be busy.” The words sounded like a crow’s cry to Ezio’s ears. For a long while Leonardo had seemed ignorant of his presence, and he’d hoped things would remain so, but then the maestro had suddenly turned his way.

Leonardo shook his head in bewilderment. It was not like Ser Ezio Auditore da Firenze to apologize for his existence. For six years, they had been brothers in all but blood. “What? Nonsense. _Avanti, avanti._ ” He turned and went back inside.

It would have been unthinkable to decline.


	2. Chapter 2

The room Ezio entered was not the actual workshop — that was situated downstairs, within easy reach of visitors and carriers. There the maestro worked by day, accompanied by assistants and students, on the paintings and sculptures commissioned by his patrons. This attic study was where Leonardo lived and kept his more personal projects. How many nights had Ezio spent there drinking wine, playing chess and talking? The wide, gable-roofed room, in itself unadorned, was full of books, papers, maps, alchemical apparati and other objects and devices, some brought from distant corners of the world, some built by Leonardo himself. After two years in Venezia, the clutter was nothing short of a miracle, and hinted at why the man was chronically out of money, despite the generosity and patience of his patrons. But the place was also familiar and comforting, more so than any other place in the city, even though Ezio had no right to call it home. 

To Ezio himself the luxury of property had become little more than a memory. Everything beyond what was required for his immediate needs, including the occasional services of a courtesan, he sent to secure his mother and sister in Monteriggioni. His few spare clothes and items were kept by one friend or another — here it was Sister Teodora Contanto in the brothel _La Rosa Della Virtù_.

Leonardo’s dwelling could not have been further from a bawdy house. The gondolier’s words felt even more appalling and untrue. 

“I am so happy to see you. I trust you are well?” Leonardo had discarded his paint-stained robe to reveal simple home clothes beneath. He shook Ezio’s hands as if it had been months and not less than a week since they’d last met — but that had always been his way with people. Leonardo treated everyone with the same friendly enthusiasm, whether they deserved it or not.

For a terrifying moment Ezio was completely tongue-tied. He hoped that his hood shadowed his face from view. He could feel emotions written tight over it like words in one of Leonardo’s books. “ _Bene, bene,_ ” he said at last.

“Do you want something to eat? Sit down, sit down. I’m sure there are leftovers from earlier. Ah, where did I put them...” The maestro turned and ran his fingers through his hair, perhaps marveling at the mess he himself had made.

Ezio looked around. Every spare surface was covered in the tools of Leonardo’s many trades, and papers scribbled full of sketches, diagrams and strange mirror writing. As usual, taking a seat seemed a mission bordering on the impossible.

“ _Evviva!_ ” Leonardo had found a pitcher from a side table. “By the way, I saw you two days ago near Rialto. A bit daring, I must say, to escape the city guard over the roofs in bright daylight. But the way you moved... ah! Beautiful. Such strength and skill. Almost like flying. I've never seen anyone leap so far. It makes me wonder if your muscles are somehow different from those of other men. Me, well, you know that I’m afraid to even try my own flying machine.”

When Ezio saw that Leonardo was about to pour wine for them, he finally managed to speak. “I cannot stay. I just came by to bring you this.” He pulled a scroll of parchment from inside his coat.

Leonardo brightened at the sight of what Ezio was holding. “Aha, you’ve found another one! How exciting!” Putting aside the wine cups, he returned to take the codex page and roll it open on a nearby desk. Curious despite his better knowledge, Ezio approached and leaned over to take a look. But his intellect was no match for Leonardo’s. He knew his Latin — well enough to have read his Ovid, at least — but in his youth, fencing, wrestling and horsemanship had interested him more than dusty books. The manuscript appeared complete gibberish to him.

He scratched his stubbled jaw and leaned back against the desk. “Hmm, _sì, sì,_ ” Leonardo was muttering to himself, talking even as he thought. “If one transposes the letters and takes every third —”

There was a neat stack of papers near Ezio’s elbow. The one on top was covered in sketches. Unthinking, he reached a gloved hand toward it, to leaf through the pile while waiting.

“Please, do not touch that,” Leonardo said, raising a finger but not looking up. “ _Così ficcanaso..!_ ”

Ezio’s face warmed. He withdrew his paw as if smacked. The maestro had never minded his curiosity before. He stole a look at the paper on top, but the sketches on it didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary, just studies of hands and feet in silverpoint.

Leonardo’s own long-fingered left hand, stained with ink and paint and calloused from toil in his workshop, moved over the cipher. As usual, his quick mind did not struggle with the code for long. “As I thought,” he said. “It fits the others perfectly. I shall have the translation ready for you by tomorrow night.”

“ _Grazie_. I will make this up to you... somehow.”

Leonardo released the parchment and looked up. “Ezio, you insult me! I owe you my life. You can ask anything of me.”

The words were noble and generous, yet Ezio’s mood darkened at the memory that came with them. A group of _mercenari_ had accosted them on a trip away from Venezia. The task of dispatching them had not been overly difficult — Ezio was becoming frighteningly good at what he did — but the fear that Leonardo might have been hurt nearly gutted him.

“Your life would not have been in peril without me.” Ezio’s hand sought his sword. He’d lost his father and brothers to treachery, he’d rather die than lose Leonardo, too. 

“True, perhaps, but it was not your intention.”

“Even so, it happened because of me!”

Leonardo sighed. “Ezio, _prego_ , tell me what is wrong. You're acting very strangely.”

 _Maledizione_... He should not have come. Pretending anything to Leonardo was difficult, even when he wasn’t a stammering fool. “It’s nothing. I just have a lot on my mind. Emilio Barbarigo, that damned dog... and so many traitors... feels like every step of progress takes too long and comes at too great a cost.” He started pacing back and forth.

 _Sodomite_. The word felt almost unthinkably vile, standing so close to his friend. _Ser da Vinci and two other men plowed a rented boy together._ Leonardo, plowing anyone? God in heaven, wasn’t it almost impossible to even talk the man to come out for a friendly night in a _trattoria?_ It was true that women did not interest him overmuch, but that was just a result of his being more attuned to platonic ideals than his own material needs. He’d said as much himself, once — ‘the art of human procreation is more interesting to me in theory than in practice’, or something to that effect.

Many had wanted Leonardo — anyone with a working pair of eyes could see why — but the idea that he would have responded to such animal longings... that he might have exercised them with someone, a man, even... _Madonna!_ Had he really hired a boy and used him in the most profane manner imaginable —

Ezio’s tortured gaze crept toward the bedstead in the corner. Even it had given up its customary function and served as a resting place for some yet unfinished device. Had Leonardo embraced someone, there? Had he moaned in pleasure, doing so? Ezio felt faint.

“ _Va tutto bene?_ Are you falling ill?” Leonardo was starting to look genuinely alarmed at Ezio’s odd behavior.

“I — I heard a rumor,” Ezio choked out.

“What rumor? About whom?”

But Ezio already knew he would not tell. He could not bear the thought of hurting Leonardo with evil slander. “ _Lascia perdere_. It was nothing, nothing. Just some drunkard telling lies.” He stepped towards the door. “I must go.”

“Already? But I would like to show you what improvements I’ve made on my flying machine. And there are ideas I have about the diagrams you brought. If I’m right, the _arma da fuoco_ they show is smaller than I assumed. Much smaller... as small as a hummingbird! If we can just manufacture gunpowder somehow, we could try to build it. But I need answers to a few questions — well, perhaps more than just a few —” As usual, Leonardo grew excited when talking of his projects, gesturing and turning and getting so enthusiastic that it was difficult not to do the same.

“Perhaps some other day. I’m tired of travel.” _And more._ Ezio had wiped his hidden blades, yet blood always stuck to their elaborate mechanics until he could properly maintain them. But the gruesome details of his profession were something his kind, unwarlike friend did not need to know.

“Ah.” Leonardo stopped. “ _Peccato_. Where are you staying? Probably on some roof or a louse-infested inn. I’ll tell Vanna to prepare a bed for you.”

Ezio had often slept at Leonardo’s house — it was one of the few places where he felt almost safe — but now the thought horrified him. “No! It would be too dangerous.”

“Surely you’re joking, you are perfectly safe with me.”

“ _Alla faccia_... I do not worry for my own safety, but yours!”

“This again? You must forget that incident. No one dares bother me.”

“And that is how I would like for things to remain!”

Leonardo gestured in frustration. “Very well. Have it your way. Come tomorrow for the translation, I will finish it tonight.”

“ _Grazie, amico._ ” Finally presented with the opportunity, Ezio turned to go, but not before Leonardo had raised his arms for an embrace. He had no choice but to return the gesture.

They’d embraced countless times before, but this felt different. As if he’d never really been aware of Leonardo before. His friend’s body beneath the clothes of wool and linen was strong and precise, not heavily muscled and cat-agile from fighting and climbing like his own, but capable of moving thick painting panels and building things many times the size of man. Leonardo smelled nicer than a man should have, fresh washed skin and hair, pine-scented oil, the faint earthy tones of chalk, charcoal and paint, and something musky that had to be his own natural scent. Ezio was well aware that even through leather armor and thick jerkin, he himself stank to high heavens of sweat, battle and horse. He sometimes bathed in _La Rosa_ , but it was not an everyday occurrence. Yet he was not afraid of Leonardo being disgusted by his rank condition. Anyone who dissected corpses for a pastime could not be too squeamish. The embrace felt painful because he could not forget the gondolier’s words. A _lover of boys! A sodomite!_ Ezio did not deserve Leonardo’s kindness. He did not deserve Leonardo’s friendship — or the obvious disappointment Leonardo showed at his departure.

“ _A presto, caro fratello._ ” Leonardo grabbed Ezio by the arms. “ _Stai attento!_ ”

“ _A presto_ , Leonardo.” Ezio could not even look his friend in the eye. Chin held low to hide his face behind the hood, he turned. He had a sinking feeling his exit appeared far too much like the escape it was.

Below on the square people cried out, but in a blink Venezia swallowed the young assassin like one of her shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

Six days later when Ezio stopped by _La Rosa Della Virtù_ , Sister Teodora mentioned that maestro da Vinci had paid a visit and asked after him.

“He came _here?_ ” Ezio looked toward the _sala_ as if the man himself might still have stood there. But of course all he saw was an opulent room lined with wall hangings, chandeliers and oriental carpets, and courtesans lounging on cushions and gossiping with each other, in lack of customers so early in the day.

Teodora adjusted her veil demurely. Like the rest of her naughty nun’s habit, it was designed to reveal rather than conceal. It had once taken Ezio quite a while to get over not knowing where to look when speaking to her. But he’d gotten better. “Why not? You’ve mentioned us to him often enough, it seems. I must in fact commend you for doing so, for it is rare to meet such a worthy supplicant. Surely _il Signore_ himself will reward me for making the great maestro da Vinci come closer to faith. And his continued devotions in our church would make many other sinners seek salvation at our door. Although if my suspicions are correct —” She took a look at Ezio’s scandalized expression, and shrugged. “Well, no matter. I think he was afraid something had befallen you.”

“I told him I’d visit, but I haven’t had the time.” It was not entirely a lie. He _had_ spent the last few days and nights trying to find the weak spot of a particularly paranoid and abstemious senator.

“I said as much. Was it true?”

“ _Ma cosa dite!_ What is this interrogation? I would never lie to my friend!”

Teodora’s plucked eyebrows climbed at Ezio’s show of temper, if not high enough to flake the layer of ceruse that lent her face an elegant and patently artificial pallor. “Then why do you try it with me, _ragazzo?_ ”

“ _Merda_...”

“Do not roll your big brown eyes at me. I’m far too old for such antics. I talked to your friend, if only for a while. And I listen to clients, and I hear many things. Take my word, you do not want to throw away the friendship of such a man. I will strangle you with my bare hands if you do.”

So, even the Madame of _La Rosa_ , as sharp and lethal as a Brescian knife, was susceptible to the ever elusive Leonardo effect. Ezio tried very hard not to indulge in churlish objections. “I won’t! And no, I’m not. Throwing anything away, that is.” _Not on some pathetic drunkard’s foul and worthless word. Am I?_ In the end, she was right, however much Ezio would have liked to pretend otherwise. For six years he’d considered Leonardo his closest friend, and now the thought of facing the man made him feel like leaping from San Marco’s Campanile without hitting hay on his way down. He’d hoped that the memory of the gondolier’s words would fade with time, but if anything, the opposite was true.

She nodded. “Now, how may our humble church be of service to you, my son?”

“I just came by to get some things.”

“ _Molto bene_.” But instead of allowing him upstairs, she eyed him all over. Her delicate nostrils trembled. “Are you sure you are not in need of some succor, _ragazzo?_ Perhaps the kind that involves a bath?”

Was he? It was usually safe to assume that Ezio was in need of a woman. But now he’d barely given thought to the matter for days — it was certainly not why he’d come to _La Rosa_. He opened his mouth to say as much.

Teodora, however, had already turned and raised her voice over the murmur of the _sala_. “Sister Agnese!”

Ezio saw a courtesan rise from a nearby pile of cushions. She looked like something out of a Roman fresco, slender and regal, with dark olive skin and curly black hair, and a robe cut so low that Ezio could see her rouged nipples peek from the folds of her chemise.

She was gorgeous. And clearly very expensive. Ezio leaned toward Teodora, mortified.

“Madonna, I don’t have enough money,” he said. The women of _La Rosa_ tended to be out of his spending range on a good day, and now he was trying to save for Claudia’s dowry. His sister had just turned twenty-one and really needed to get married already. He did visit the place often, but mostly it was just to access his belongings, or to talk with the Madame, who was well versed in the spiderweb of Veneziano intrigue and seemed to have taken an inexplicable liking to him.

“Oh, shush,” she murmured. “She’s seen you around, heard the stories... I’m doing this as a favor.”

“Oh.” _What sort of stories?_ But Sister Agnese was already there.

She had recently arrived from Cambia. Ezio could barely understand more than a few scattered words of her thick patois. Then again, she lacked the usual affectations of fashionable Veneziano females — a pleasant surprise, used as he was to the local beauties who tended to come with a thick layer of paint and bathed in enough perfume to make a man’s eyes water.

Well, who was he to say no to a beautiful woman? He followed her upstairs and was promptly undressed and deposited in a bath. The young courtesan scrubbed his back and made a show of removing her silk robe and skirts, leaving on embroidered tall socks, stays and a shift. But even though Ezio’s eyes appreciated the sight, his mind was elsewhere.

He couldn’t get over the fact that Leonardo had been to _La Rosa_. To all intents and purposes, the man was living like a monk. Only once had Ezio been able to drag him to a bordello, years ago back in Firenze, to celebrate his victory over the cowardly Francesco de’ Pazzi. They’d gotten stinking drunk and Leonardo had spent most of the night talking mathematics and inventing blasphemous theories about the microcosm, while Ezio himself had romped his way through the back rooms with at least three courtesans. He wouldn’t have minded sharing a girl or two with his friend, but Leonardo had more important things on which to spend his vital energies.

And now... _La Rosa?_ Had he really visited just to ask after Ezio’s whereabouts? Teodora would never tell.

After the bath and a rather cursory sort of toweling, Ezio found himself being thrown in the bed alcove.

He should have been more than happy with the situation. He couldn’t understand why his heart wasn’t really in it. Not that his physique betrayed anything of the sort — he was three and twenty, he could still get hard from just seeing a swaying skirt, let alone having a beautiful girl climb him like a vine. But he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm that Agnese had obviously heard of and expected.

Maybe he was ill? But the only time he’d ever been sick had been an ague three years ago, aside from some rare self-induced consequences of revelry.

After a while, the courtesan pushed herself away. “Tired, _assassino?_ ” she asked sweetly.

Ezio rolled on his back. “ _Chiedo venia, bella mia...”_ He felt worthless but tried giving her his most devastating look of contrition. “You are very beautiful.”

It seemed to work. It usually did, except maybe on Teodora. “ _Va bene_. I take care, _sì?_ ”

“ _Al vostro servizio, madonna...”_

Muttering something that sounded like insults at Ezio’s masculinity in her native language, Agnese straddled his loins and started unpinning her hair. A mass of shiny dark curls fell down her back. Ezio pushed his hands beneath her shift and ran his fingers up and down her thighs.

“Agnese,” he said, then. “Did you meet maestro da Vinci the other day?”

“Messere Leonardo?” The courtesan brightened. She launched into a starry-eyed exposition, of which Ezio recognized the words ‘tall’, ‘beautiful’ and ‘fair’. Somehow in the middle of it, her stays disappeared.

Well, that sounded like Leonardo, alright. Ezio felt even more confused. Surely no one spoke so enthusiastically about someone who had just stopped by to ask a question. After a while, Ezio wasn’t even sure Agnese still spoke of Leonardo, but the dreamy look in her eye was something that women tended to acquire when talking about his friend.

Leonardo had said he wasn’t very interested in the ‘art of procreation’. But that didn’t mean he was _completely_ indifferent, did it? What if the need just came upon him only once in a while? For all Ezio knew, Leonardo might have fucked _Agnese_ on his visit to _La Rosa._

Now, there was a thought. Leonardo’s fair skin and hair against her dark complexion... it would have been quite the sight. He slid his hands up her warm thighs, and she gave him a little grin, and reached beneath her buttocks. He closed his eyes.

Had she held Leonardo like this, too, in her supple fingers? The thought made him harder than the strokes themselves. The skin under Leonardo’s clothes was pale and freckled like his face — he’d seen it when the man rolled up his sleeves, and the fuzz on his arms, its color the same as his hair and beard. Dark gold and ivory. He had to be like that all over.

In the shadow of the alcove, Ezio rolled on the mattress and pinned the courtesan under him. She giggled, her yet unspoiled teeth flashing against red lips. He smiled back, but it felt fake. How had he gone from absent-minded to too hard in just a few short moments? All of a sudden, he wanted to take her and get it over with.

That wasn’t how Leonardo would have done it, was it? Ezio had seen his friend work, the way he touched his creations, how he admired beauty. Leonardo would have treated Agnese with the same reverence and ambition. But Ezio was no artist.

He leaned down to kiss her. She’d chewed mint; it was not unpleasant. She arched beneath him, and her chemise fell from her breasts, their round hills a velvety bronze and heaving with every breath. Ezio sucked one nipple in his mouth and pushed up her shift. He could feel her warm scent, legs opening in invitation, and when he reached down, damp curls — she’d liked his touch. Or maybe she’d been remembering Leonardo? _His_ mouth and hands. Someone so knowledgeable about anatomy had to be good at pleasing others, far better than Ezio, who just relied on instinct. _Ah sì, maestro!_ How she would have cried. Losing patience, he lifted her knee on his arm and straddled her thigh. She made soft, encouraging noises. But from the first slide in, he knew he was in no mood for slow lovemaking. Muttering a useless apology, he started thrusting.

 _Non smettere!_ Leonardo’s long fingers inside her, and his tongue, and waves of golden hair on her smooth brown skin...

_Arrivo, arrivo, maestro..!_

Afterwards, he felt like punching his fist through the nearest window.

What the hell had come over him? Of course Leonardo hadn’t been with Agnese or any other slattern in this house. He’d confided in no uncertain terms to Ezio that he had no such desires. It must have taken a lot of courage to confess such a thing. God, when Ezio’s dick took over, his sense of shame truly flew out of a window.

In a sort of apology he took a while to pleasure the girl. It was hasty and pathetic, but if the courtesan’s sighs and kisses afterwards were anything to go by, even at his worst Ezio had been far better than her usual clients. It made him feel sad, rather than flattered. He knew many men treated their paid women worse than dogs, but after getting to know Paola and Teodora, he’d never been able to forget that whores had feelings, too. Maybe that was why they liked him?

The _post coitum triste_ followed him out of the brothel, into the drizzly _calli_ of San Polo.

There was little there to distract him from his ill mood. The shop fronts were closed to the wet weather, and the few pedestrians around hurried forward to get out of the chilly rain. Ezio soon dove into a little tavern for food and drink. But he had little appetite, and the ale tasted like piss in his mouth.

After leaving the establishment, he walked through the district to Leonardo’s bottega.

He wasn’t going to go in. His visit would just have placed his friend in unnecessary danger. And Leonardo was a busy man; they would be unable to talk, so early in the afternoon. There could be business partners and even patrons around, delivering materials or discussing commissions and making demands for them to be finished faster. Besides, nothing guaranteed that the maestro was even there.

But he wanted to see that Leonardo was fine and unharmed. He knew there was something excessive about coming to his friend’s house most every day just to check that everything was right. He knew that his reasons to do so were somehow connected to the loss of his family, but the ritual calmed him too much to try and get rid of it.

Usually he just walked by or checked from the roofs that the workshop was going about in its customary busy manner. But now most of the shutters were closed against the rain, and he couldn’t see in from a distance. Some of the windows had been left ajar to let in some light, and without difficulty, he found one with a discreet view in and no back lighting to reveal his presence.

Inside, the workshop had a life of its own, cluttered, colorful and bustling, illuminated by great fireplaces and gray light spearing in from between the shutters. Ezio wasn’t sure how many students Leonardo had these days — five or six, he guessed, some of them penniless charity cases, others from wealthy families, who paid hard money to be able to connect themselves to the maestro’s name. Two assistants handled Leonardo’s tasks and executed large parts of his commissions. The maestro himself was not always the most practical of people, but he’d chosen his employees well, and so far they’d been able to prevent his financial ruin due to taking on too much work, not finishing enough of it, and donating or wasting away all of the money he needed to feed himself.

Right now, said assistants seemed to be arguing with a client over a large painting that hung on the far wall. A boy nearby was making firewood out of some discarded scaffolding. Two students of perhaps ten were sketching a bust of a woman near the windows, a task hampered by how they kept kicking each other and pulling at each other’s hair. Near one of the fireplaces, an old man was snoring on a bench beneath a blanket. At least three cats slept or sat on top unfinished pieces of art. Of the master of the workshop himself, however, Ezio saw not a glimpse.

It seemed he was present, though.

“Maestro!” one of the assistants called. “Maestro. _Per favore._ ”

A very familiar voice approached from the far end of the workshop, followed by that of a much younger man in obvious dismay.

“..no, no. It is useless, maestro. I’ve destroyed it!”

Leonardo laughed and stepped in view near the windows. He turned, now facing away from Ezio, and held by the shoulders one of his students, a boy of perhaps seventeen. Ezio had not intended to eavesdrop (his sense of privacy was merely conflicted, not non-existent), but now he found himself rooted in place.

“Why should you think any such thing? I gave that sketch to you, to practice your colors.”

“And I destroyed it, maestro,” the boy repeated, wringing his hands. “It was perfect. And I — well, you saw what I did. Please, maestro. I am a waste of your time.” The boy looked away, almost crying, and the wan light from the windows fell on him. His face was a chiseled, pale oval framed by raven curls. If his fine clothes were anything to go by, he was the produce of a thriving merchant family. One of those, then, that Leonardo had taken on because of his assistants’ insistence that they needed the money.

For all Ezio knew, the boy was right. He’d seen some of the work by Leonardo’s students. It was all horrible. He couldn’t understand how a man of such talent had been cursed with such a bunch of worthless dolts.

“Maestro,” the assistant called again. Leonardo raised his hand.

“You are not a waste of time, Tonio,” he said gently. “Do not compare yourself so harshly to me! I’ve had more than twenty years to perfect my skill, and you less than one. No one can demand more of us than that we do our best, to the extent of our ability. Even if we do not become masters of a trade, the lessons we learn will carry on to other things. Trust me, you will yet find your place in this world!”

The boy listened with an expression of utter worship. He was in love with Leonardo, and not even trying to hide it. From where Ezio was standing, he could not see Leonardo’s face, but the way his hand lingered on the student’s shoulder seemed to speak of intimacy. Then again, Leonardo liked to touch all his friends. But still... the boy was beautiful. He might even have been chosen for that very reason. Verrocchio had also preferred good-looking students, to eliminate some of the trouble of searching for handsome models. Perhaps that, too, meant nothing. Yet, still...

_That painter from Vinci is a lover of boys._

“Maestro,” the assistant called, yet again, distress in his voice.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Leonardo patted the boy on the cheek. “Now, Tonio, no more of this self-pity. Back to your work, _sì?_ ” He walked off. Poor Tonio stared at his master’s receding back as if he’d been kicked to the ground and trampled on. Then he pulled himself together, and noticed that the little students were starting to scream and fight in earnest. With a yell, he hurried to separate the little devils.

The drizzle was starting to turn to rain and Ezio withdrew to the shelter of a loggia. He knew that he should have been elsewhere — his pitiful lingering gave the lie to everything he’d told Teodora — but he didn’t trust himself not to walk to the closest canal and drown himself.

He wasn’t starting to believe the gondolier’s slander, was he? Frantically, he grasped for reasons not to do so.

Surely if Leonardo had been in the habit of keeping lovers, rumors would have spread? It seemed unlikely that no one would have felt the need to boast of being held by the great maestro, least of all the kind of rough trade with whom the gondolier had accused him of consorting. Veneziano gossip was the cruelest Ezio had known (something to do with the filthy-mouthed gondola drivers, to be sure), and judging by how little it had to say about Leonardo, the man had to live like a saint. He was so generous and amiable, and far too trusting, he would never have been able to kill the rumor mill once it started going.

No, of course Leonardo was not leading any sort of secret life, fucking pretty boys in dark corners, a bosom buddy to prostitutes and —

Suddenly Ezio had to walk to a nearby bench and sit down.

_Paola._

Paola of _La Rosa Colta_ in Firenze, who had helped the remaining Auditores to hide and escape. The mysterious _donna_ who had started Ezio on his training. A courtesan, like Teodora, but unlike the Sister, it had not been her choice. Six years ago, she had sent Ezio to Leonardo. And Ezio had been naïve enough to think it a mere lucky coincidence. In his blind hunt for revenge, he had soon forgotten the whole thing. 

Now Ezio was no longer a child. He knew that few real coincidences took place in this world. Paola had known Leonardo. And as a consequence, it had to follow that Leonardo had known Paola, too.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Repubblica Fiorentina 1476** _

“He’s not here.” Verrocchio’s assistant makes to close the door. 

Out of sheer despair, Ezio shoulders his way through and finds his talent for intimidation. Perhaps it is his father’s strange clothes that do the trick, especially the deep, beaked hood. When people can’t see his eyes, they can’t see what he feels, how very young he is.

He learns that Ser da Vinci has taken his leave of Verrocchio’s workshop and established a studio of his own. The assistant gives detailed instructions how to get there. To Ezio’s relief, the place is located in a different and cheaper part of town, far away from Casa Auditore, which the Gonfaloniere’s men still prowl.

It’s amazing what people don’t see when they aren’t looking. Ezio reaches the painter’s new address without confrontation. He pounds on the door, even though trusting yet another stranger feels like utter madness. He cannot understand why Paola thinks that some artist would want to aid him. Even if it turns out that the man is willing to help, association with Ezio would put him in grave danger. In the end, however, he just doesn’t have a choice. _I hope Ser da Vinci doesn’t turn me over to the guard, at least._

When he’s almost given up hope, the door opens. To his surprise it is the man himself, tall and lanky and wrapped in a filthy apron.

“Yes?” The pleasant, melodic voice sounds wary, if not unfriendly. Then again, who wouldn’t feel suspicious with a cowled stranger appearing at their doorstep? Ezio looks toward the street. Then he pulls the hood back just enough to show his face.

The painter’s eyes widen. “What — why — _caspita!_ Did anyone see you? Come in, quickly!” He pulls Ezio inside and latches the door.

The studio is far smaller than Verrocchio’s lavish workshop, but it looks solid and waterproof, with good-sized windows overlooking a bright square. No apprentice or assistant lingers in sight. The painter hurries to close the bottom shutters, to prevent curious passersby from seeing in. Light still pours through the top windows and paints out dust swirling over the strange medley of tools, workbenches, boxes, materials and projects. The paintings Ezio mainly expected to see are far outnumbered by all sorts of models for machines and buildings. The strangest of all is what appears a mechanical man in the middle of the room, entirely made of wood, with gears and pulleys for joints and tendons.

Ser da Vinci himself looks very different from the picture of perfection many months ago. His fair hair curls any which way and there are dark smudges of dirt on his face and hands. Under the apron, he’s wearing a threadbare shirt and woollen hose and tabard. He looks much thinner than before, gaunt even. But he’s still an impressive fellow, and towers over Ezio who still hopes against hope that, unlike Federico, he’ll take after his mother’s side of the family and grow a couple of more inches before he’s done.

For a second da Vinci appears at a loss. “I didn’t expect to see you! What with all that’s happened...” Then he shakes his head. “Ah! Where are my manners? Welcome.” He returns to pull the young Auditore in a warm embrace.

Taken by surprise, Ezio feels almost tempted to believe that da Vinci is genuinely happy to see him. He just cannot begin to understand why.

“How is Madonna Maria?” the painter asks, hands on Ezio’s shoulders, concerned blue eyes searching his face. “And your most honored sister?”

“Safe, for now.” Only some time ago, Ezio might have readily confided everything in this man, who seems so likable and concerned. But no longer. Now he knows he can’t trust anyone. Not after the Gonfaloniere’s betrayal.

“ _Grazie a Dio_. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to— ah. How are _you_ , _ragazzo?_ ”

 _How am I..?_ Ezio looks aside. Something that feels like a small, sharp-fanged animal tries to claw itself out of his chest. _Skinned, bled dry and skewered. Unable to eat or sleep. Burning in hell’s deepest, blackest pit until Uberto Alberti’s filthy heart’s blood spills over my hands and avenges my poor father and brothers..!_

“What a stupid question, Leonardo,” the painter mutters. “ _Mi dispiace_. Are you hungry? Do you have money? _Ditemi, ditemi_ , how can I be of service to you?”

“I was hoping you could repair something of mine.”

To his astonishment, the man agrees without even asking questions first.

A few days later Ezio returns for a fitting of the harness, then visits every week to see if Ser da Vinci has indeed been able to restore the function of his father’s broken blade. Remembering those blackened old pieces of steel, he doesn’t expect much. To his astonishment, however, in just three weeks, da Vinci not only manages to repair the weapon, he has improved on its design and turned it into a thing of beauty. Many of its old parts are replaced with new ones. The mechanism looks brand new and fine as clockwork, yet graceful in its simplicity, and so well made that despite the armoring he can hide it beneath his sleeve.

Ser da Vinci shows Ezio how to adjust the fit of the vambrace, how to trigger the blade. The first time Ezio does it, the force of the spring kicks his arm like a mule. The painter laughs and explains how to control the blade’s speed and length. It is the most ingenious and deadly piece of machinery Ezio has ever seen.

Ser da Vinci seems to agree. “I believe I have outdone myself,” he says, smiling with a bit of healthy self-satisfaction.

 _Not long ago, I thought this man was a whore for an old lecher of a painting master._ For the first time in a long while, Ezio feels something tug at the corners of his mouth. It’s almost impossible not to, with da Vinci grinning at him like that. The man appears so ridiculously good-natured and happy with the world and its insanities.

Then Ezio remembers what he needs the blade for. The smile dies on his face.

They both raise their heads at a banging from the entrance.

“By order of the Florentine guard, open this door!”

Ser da Vinci straightens, sobers up. “You should hide,” he says. “I will take care of this. I’ve grown accustomed to their abuses.”

Ezio nods and withdraws behind a cupboard.

It’s a guard officer looking for leads to find a known enemy of the state. If Ezio’s instincts are correct, the man is working alone, hungry for a quick promotion. He invites himself into the studio, and once inside, starts threatening da Vinci, who feigns innocence. But the intruder doesn’t take no for an answer.

“ _Non fare il finto tonto!_ I know you were close with the family!”

“Ser, I do now know what you —”

Ezio hears a slap. Da Vinci falls silent. “Perhaps this will clear your head!” the guard bellows. An ugly thud follows. It takes a moment before the painter speaks again.

“ _Mi dispiace_.” His voice is thin with pain. “I do not understand—”

“Close-mouthed, huh? I will piss on you when I’m done, you filthy — cocksucking —”

The young Auditore hears everything. The punches that accentuate the guard’s words. Ser da Vinci’s silence, aside from grunts and huffs.

_This man helped me without asking for anything in return. When others would have spat on me, he took me in his home and called me friend._

Ezio steps from his hiding place.

“ _Fottuto codardo_... Should I break your hands? Let’s see you paint _sciattone_ with no fingers.”

Da Vinci is leaning against the wall, arm raised to protect his face. The guard officer — a brutish, untidy sort of man, broad as a barn door — hits him in the stomach. He doubles over.

“‘Ready to talk?”

Despite his many fights with Vieri de’ Pazzi’s gang, Ezio has never taken a life. He’s dealt (and received) his share of injuries and even cut off some ears, the same as any red-blooded Fiorentine youth, but he doesn’t believe that a man should die just because of rivalry. That is what his father has taught him. Besides, blood settlements are expensive, and as a banker’s son he knows the value of money. He’s already in enough trouble because of his dalliances with noblemen’s daughters.

Not that any of that matters, any more.

It happens so fast. Too little preparation and fanfare is needed. The officer is focused on his task and doesn’t hear the footsteps before it’s too late. Ezio reaches from behind to cover the guard’s mouth and lifts his left hand to the man’s back, knowing from dagger-fight lessons exactly where. The blade springs from its sheath and, with morbid ease, slices through leather, cloth and flesh. The officer shudders and makes a strange, choked sound against Ezio’s palm.

So much for childish notions of nobility and honor. Ezio retracts the blade, and it is as if the weapon never appeared, except for a dying man falling to the floor. There is much less blood than he would have expected. He feels no shock, no guilt. Just a strange sense of inevitability.

“ _Madonna..!_ ”

Ezio looks up to see Ser da Vinci stare at the guard’s twitching corpse, white with pain. The left side of his face looks bad and Ezio knows that come tomorrow it will be bruised all over.

“Messere.” He steps over and extends his hand. “Are you alright?”

Ser da Vinci’s eyes look very blue against his bloodless complexion. Pathetically, he even now tries to smile. Well, at least he doesn’t seem to object to Ezio’s decision. “Yes, yes...” He takes the offered arm. “I did not expect for you to put the blade to test quite so soon. _Dio mio,_ I believe he would have... would have done what he said. What a disgusting man. I suppose I must be grateful for your being here.” Talking seems difficult for him, yet he does it all the same.

“What do we do with him?” Ezio doesn’t feel much sympathy for the guard. For all he knows, the brute might have been one of those who violated his mother and then arrested his father and brothers and clobbered them half to death in the tower prison for sport. Dear Petruccio, no more than thirteen, and sharp, light-hearted Federico, who taught Ezio to climb and run the roofs, while others would have had him sit in a classroom and learn to be an elevated bookkeeper. And his father... Ezio all but spits on the corpse.

Ser da Vinci frowns as he thinks. Ezio sees beads of sweat form on the painter’s pale forehead. He’s witnessed beatings like that before, and knows that the man must be in a lot of pain. Guilt washes over him like a hot fall of water. All his fault. At the very least, he should have killed the _bastardo_ faster.

The painter nods toward a door that leads further into the building. “Please, could you take him downstairs? I don’t think I can manage it. I... I believe I can walk, however. Help me get a candle, it will be dark down there.”

At the doorway, Ezio senses a strange smell. It grows stronger as they descend a narrow flight of stairs to the underground. He goes backwards and pulls the guard’s heavy, armored corpse down step by step, while da Vinci follows with a candle in his hand. The stony basement is cool, musty and dark, and stinks like a slaughterhouse.

When da Vinci shuffles forth and lifts the light, Ezio sees to his astonishment that there is already a man’s naked body lying in the room, on its back on a marble-topped table. Holding an arm to his face against dangerous vapors, he steps over to look at what lies on the stone.

The head of the corpse is lolling at the end of a grotesquely elongated, bruised neck, broken and distorted by hanging (there’s a too-recent, sore memory there, but Ezio fights it back). The man’s skin is mottled with death, his torso cut open from sternum to groin, then neatly sewn back together with black string. A selection of barber knives and butcher’s tools lay nearby on a clean bench. Ezio is no stranger to death — disease and accident, infants failing to live, executions, beggars expired in street corners — but here in the closed space, the smell is very nearly intolerable.

“What is this?” Ezio gestures toward the stitched-up cadaver, his voice muffled against his sleeve.

Da Vinci looks over from where he’s pulling a sheet of cloth over the guard’s husk. He doesn’t seem the least bothered by the thick stench of death. “Ah, that. I buy them from the executioner... keep them for research.”

Eyes wide, Ezio stares at da Vinci. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“It is not. Though the Church does frown upon it.” The man sounds quite happy to admit sacrilege. “But not illegal. Not like killing an investigator of the council... _no?_ ”

 _At least it is not a crime against God!_ But Ezio knows better than to say it aloud. He would just sound like a whiny child. And to be honest, he doesn’t think he possesses the stamina to breathe more in order to speak. They return upstairs, slowly on account of da Vinci’s condition, and Ezio is happy to have fresh air in his lungs again.

“Paola was right. You’re much more than a painter,” he says when helping da Vinci to sit on a chest.

The man gives him a lopsided grin and gestures for him to pinch out the candle and put it away. Ezio turns to do so and from the corner of his eye, notices Ser da Vinci touch his waist and grimace when he thinks Ezio can’t see. His face is starting to swell. Ezio’s black guilt rises again and he almost wishes that the officer’s corpse was still there, so he could stab it once more.

“Should I get a doctor, messere?”

Da Vinci starts to laugh, then stops, eyes glazing over with pain. “ _Dio, no!_ I don’t want to feel _worse_ than I already do.”

Ezio doesn’t understand, but decides to let the topic drop. “I’m sorry. I did not mean for any of this to happen. I did not mean —” He cannot finish. There are so many things he would have wanted not to happen. So far his greatest achievement in this tragedy has been murdering a man who did not see him coming.

With Uberto Alberti, Ezio intends to do better. Much better. The Gonfaloniere will see his death coming, and know exactly who brought it.

Da Vinci watches him in silence, pale and sweaty, yet also calm and collected. “How old are you?” the painter asks, at last.

It would be unworthy of him to lie to this man who has shown him nothing but honesty and kindness. “Seventeen, messere.”

“ _Diciassette!_ ” Da Vinci looks toward the ceiling. “ _Dio mio_. Please, call me Leonardo. I am not more than four and twenty myself, and just a petty notary’s illegitimate son, not old or high enough to be called by fancy titles. Do you need money? I’m sure I have a few _soldi_ left in my purse.”

With a flash of lucidity, Ezio realizes that the reason da Vinci answers his own door is that he cannot afford an assistant. Perhaps that also explains why he’s so thin.

“No, I beseech you! I get all I need from Paola. You’ve done too much for me already, ser. The blade itself, it must be worth a fortune — I do not know how I can ever repay you!”

Da Vinci raises a hand. “Repayment will not be necessary.”

“Why? Why have you helped me?”

The man looks away and holds his silence for a moment, then sighs, as if deciding.

“There was a time... not that long ago... when I needed help myself. When everyone else would rather have forgotten me or thrown me to the wolves, Madonna Maria was there. I would do anything for her and hers. That is all you need to know, _ragazzo_.”

 _Why? What happened?_ But Ezio knows his mother won’t tell. Her mind has closed itself to pain and all other mortal feeling. She spends her days praying and only eats and sleeps at the behest of her daughter.

Perhaps seeing the Gonfaloniere’s blood will bring her back to the living. _Where shall the blade go? His heart?_ No, that would be too merciful. Alberti needs to suffer. Ezio will stab the Gonfaloniere in his middle, so that the bastard dies in slow agony while his innards rot and fester. Ezio moves his left arm just to feel the hidden blade secured to it. The weight of it is foreign, but he feels reassured by it, by the pressure of the straps, even as he knows that they will chafe his hand and wrist to bloody rags before the leather softens and his skin toughens.

No matter. The harness is welcome to lay his flesh open to the bone, he vows not to take it off before the Gonfaloniere is dead. The blade is not an extension of his arm, he is an extension of the blade. A living weapon, that is what he needs to become.

“ _Grazie,_ Ser Leonardo,” he says, his voice hoarse. “For everything.”

The painter nods, looking ill and weary. Even so, that unwavering smile still lingers on his face. “ _Di nulla_. Now I must ask you to go back to Paola. Will you give her my regards?”

“Of course. And if you would allow it, ser, I would like to visit again, to see that you are recovered.”

Ser da Vinci seems surprised. Has he often helped people only to have them disappear after getting what they wanted? “My friend, come back whenever you wish. I would like it very much.”

“Later, then, ser.” Ezio pulls up his hood. Then it occurs to him that tomorrow he might be dead. He goes back to da Vinci and lays a hand on his shoulder. “I will not forget your kindness, friend.”

Ezio does not know what Ser da Vinci sees in his face, but whatever it is, he’s unable to speak for a moment. Some blood returns to his wan cheeks. Then he blinks. “Please, if there’s anything more I can do for you, don’t ever hesitate to visit. My door is always open.”

Ezio thanks the artist for one last time, and leaves.

The next evening, he climbs the walls of the brand new Santa Croce cloister, where Verrocchio’s latest work is being revealed to a select audience. As always, Paola’s information turns out to be good. Uberto Alberti stands there amidst other patrician guests in the beautifully proportioned Brunelleschi courtyard, his rich robes and chains of office giving him away. He holds his head high as if not less than a month ago his treachery cost an honorable man and his two sons their lives. _And how many others?_ Beyond the light of braziers and torches, Ezio drops to the deserted loggia, then sneaks along it toward the Gonfaloniere, who suspects nothing. Neither do the guards converged at the courtyard’s entrance.

Ezio has no trouble guessing what slander is repeated by the guests. He’s already heard it from town criers and gossips. All of it the doing of Alberti and his allies. He sees the Gonfaloniere extend a goblet to be refilled by a retainer and take what must be sugared fruit from a silver platter. Ezio remembers the taste of the sweetmeats Alberti brought to him and his brothers when they were just children. _Such clever and handsome sons, Giovanni. You must be very proud._ The memory makes him want to vomit.

Now he stands close enough to hear the Gonfaloniere converse with one of his business partners, a wealthy silk merchant, and other fawning sycophants. “And to think that I once thought of Giovanni Auditore as... brother.” His voice is loud and clear, meant to reach all ears nearby. “But as a Gonfaloniere, it is my duty to ensure that Firenze remains a shining beacon of justice. Corruption and its ilk will find no purchase here so long as I am in control.”

“But what of the other son? Ezio, was it? I hear he’s still on the loose...”

“The child poses no danger. Soft hands and an even softer head. He’ll soon be caught and executed like his kin —”

The blood pounding in Ezio’s ears drowns out all else. He walks out of the loggia’s shadow, a ghost in white materializing from the darkness. The Gonfaloniere turns, mouth frozen mid-speak.

Ezio whips his left hand to the side, feels the release of the wheel-powered spring, the hiss of steel on steel. Alberti takes a halting step back. The goblet drops from his hand, spilling dark wine on pale gray stone. The silk merchant makes the sign of the cross.

Then the world is washed out in a blood-red haze.


	5. Chapter 5

**_La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia 1482_ **

After a week of loitering around street corners in stinking disguise, watching the Palazzo Ducale or a certain boring patrician home in San Marco, Ezio out of sheer boredom chose his moment to strike. 

“ _L’ombra bianca!” “Assassino!_ ” cried the guards who saw him hanging from the _piano nobile_ of a nearby house, his cape snapping in the wind, a ghostly apparition in the midnight dark. In the torchlight, Ezio could see the double-dealing senator Andrea Crivelli fall down the stairs which would have taken him to the safety of his gondola. A crossbow bolt was sticking through his voluminous red robes, a strong poison in its tip making sure he’d never rise again.

The crossbow was not Ezio’s favorite weapon. But he wasn’t much of a shot with a longbow, and getting within a stabbing distance of Crivelli would have been impossible, what with the man surrounding himself with a score of guards day and night. Ezio tossed away his weapon and pushed off the wall, and rolled to his feet on the street while the first stones bounced from the bricks where his head had been.

He’d known from the start that killing Crivelli would be the easy part. Now he needed to survive the deed. The senator’s guards included some of the fastest runners in Venezia, men of Arte di Mercenari who had made their reputation by loyalty and ruthlessness. Failing a job, they would do anything to avenge their employer. After all, a bodyguard who couldn’t protect his master was worth little.

Already they were coming for him. Ezio turned and ran.

The timing could have been better. He knew how to lose himself in a crowd, but in November and so late into the night, San Marco’s maze-like _calli_ were deserted. Freerunning — dangerous at best — would have been outright insane now, with the darkness and mist of the approaching winter making death traps of the roof tiles. He had to either lose his pursuers on the ground, or fight them. Facing fifteen soldiers, it was not a difficult choice to make.

He’d eschewed most of his armor for speed. And indeed, the clatter of steel boots and the cries of the heavier guards behind him quickly waned. But the softer rap of the runners’ boots followed him like a bad dream through the winding, black alleys illuminated only by the occasional lantern burning at some door. The only other sound he heard was his own panting. The _corridori_ wasted no breath to shout.

There were five of them, rested and well trained, whereas Ezio had spent the better part of the evening waiting for senator Crivelli to leave the house of his mistress, crammed tight beneath a roof where the patrolling guards’ torches could not reach. Leaping on a rickety bridge from between tall houses, he crossed a narrow canal, its heaving waters high enough to lick the streets. After sprinting down another dark alley, he cut to the left, following a route he’d laid out in advance.

They were nearing the Rialto bridge, now. He had maybe to the count of thirty before the heavier fighters would be upon him. In what seemed a dead-end alley into a closed-off courtyard, wide enough for three men to walk side by side, Ezio stopped and turned. Behind him, a bolted wooden gate blocked the way, with faint firelight coming from behind it.

Before three heartbeats, the first _corridoro_ burst around the corner, a bared rondel dagger in his hand. Ezio swung his arm. A throwing knife to the face stopped the guard. The second runner emerged and side-stepped to avoid the falling man, then cried out and fell as another knife struck him in the thigh. But three still remained. Ezio triggered his left spring-blade and pulled his stiletto from his belt. It was seventeen inches of slender, diamond-shaped Brescian steel he’d used ever since he’d found it in his father’s coffer.

The rest of the men were upon him at the count of three. The closest one pulled his cinquedea from its sheath. Ezio caught its upward slash against the curved quillion of his stiletto and smashed the guard’s face in with his elbow. Flowing from one enemy to the next, he spun to block a short sword with his left bracer and jabbed the stiletto in and out of another guard's stomach.

Seeing a fleet-footed shadow dance around him, Ezio rolled away, to keep the gate at his back. But he was not fast enough. Something had connected, and he felt hot blood well under his clothes at the back of his right shoulder. Back on his feet, he crouched, two blades raised in front of his hooded face. _Careless._

The fourth guard hesitated. Not letting his eyes leave the assassin, he retreated, a pair of daggers held ready. He called to his comrades. But only coughs and moans of pain replied. Then the man made a mistake. He turned his gaze for a split second toward the alley’s entrance. Seeing the opening, Ezio attacked. But the runner managed to raise his guard in time.

Pushing as hard as he could, Ezio drove his enemy toward the alley’s entrance, stiletto and hidden blade striking the guard’s daggers in blinding sequence. Then he swirled his cape in the guard’s eyes, causing him to panic. Dodging an awkward lunge, Ezio ran two steps up the nearest wall and pushed to tackle his opponent to the ground and ram the hidden blade through his neck.

Still crouching, Ezio looked up toward the mouth of the alley. The last _corridoro_ — the one struck by the second throwing knife — stood there staring at his dead and injured comrades. Breathing hard, Ezio retracted the wrist blade and pushed up, and spun the stiletto in his hand.

The guard scrambled back and limped behind the corner, yelling for the fighters behind.

With a wolfish grin, Ezio sheathed his weapon. He jogged to the gate and pulled himself over it into the deserted courtyard. There was no great hurry, now; the single remaining _corridoro_ wouldn’t chase him, and the others were too heavily armored to climb anything more demanding than a flight of stairs.

The courtyard was quiet, and dark except for a few sputtering torches. Ezio took the far wall to the roof and risked a leap to the top of a nearby house. Pacing its length, he dropped back to the street, where there was no danger of falling and breaking his neck. The echoes of clattering armor and shouts behind him grew more distant and slowly faded away.

Only a couple of gondoliers were huddled around a fire near the Rialto bridge, trying to stay warm against the freezing night. One of them was happy enough for the coin to turn a blind eye on the blood spattered on his client. Later he’d probably spill everything to the guard. But Ezio made sure to leave off many blocks from Leonardo’s workshop.

o o o

By the time he reached his destination, the bleeding had stopped, but the back of his right shoulder was starting to stiffen. Pain did not slow him down easily, nor was the wound deep enough to weaken him with blood loss, but it needed to be cleaned and bandaged. Through the Thieves’ Guild, Ezio did know a couple of barbers he could have visited even at this hour, but Leonardo also knew how to dress a wound — better than most surgeons, in fact, even if that expertise had more to do with cutting up dead bodies than treating living ones.

After senator Crivelli’s death, Ezio needed to disappear for a while, and the easiest way to achieve that would be to travel to Monteriggioni. Before that, however, he needed to fetch the latest piece of the Codex. Uncle Mario would never forgive him otherwise. Thus it was no longer a question of whether he _wanted_ to visit Leonardo. Just pure necessity. If his heart was beating a little faster than normal, it was on account of the recent fight and injury. There was no reason to read anything more to it... no reason at all.

He arrived at the familiar land-locked square in San Polo without meeting a soul on his way. Faint light from behind the attic shutters told him that the master of the house was in. Leonardo’s servant Giovanna slept by the front door, but as usual, Ezio preferred the upstairs route. When he climbed to the balcony, his wound had just started to reduce the movement of his arm a bit.

He knocked on the door, as so many times before. “Leonardo, _sono io!_ ” he called in a low voice.

No one replied.

Had the man fallen asleep with the candles still burning? No, he rarely went to bed so early in the night. And he was not stupid enough to leave a fire in his room untended. Ezio shivered. Now that he was no longer on the move, the cold night air was starting to steal under his clothes. The pain from his wound was also starting to bother him. He knocked again.

This time there were steps from inside, much too light to be those of a man. The door opened. At the threshold, young Giovanna stood with a candle in her hand, wearing a simple servant’s dress, coif and apron — red-nosed, pale and frightened.

“Ser Ezio!” she cried and burst to tears.

For a second Ezio stood frozen, too startled to speak. Then he ducked his head to step inside, and took Vanna by the arm.

Leonardo’s study was its usual chaotic self, just darker and colder. The fireplace was dead, and there were remains of a breakfast on the table, probably forgotten there when the resident polymath’s attention had been stolen by something more important. Usually Vanna cleaned up such things when her master worked downstairs. Whatever had happened, it had been hours and hours ago. _Today of all days I chose not to come and make sure everything’s all right._

He made Vanna sit on a bench.

“Tell me,” he said. It was difficult not to make demands and shake her, but he resisted the urge. God knew that making her faint would serve no purpose.

After a moment she was able to stammer out an explanation.

“Two men, signore! Came before midday. Maestro was returning from the market. They took him from the front gate, wouldn’t let him leave a message. Please, signore, they had weapons! I fear something terrible has happened!”

Ezio fought down cold, nauseating panic. He grabbed the servant by her shoulders. “Who were they? Did they wear someone’s colors? Did you hear them talk? Tell me everything, _ragazza!_ ”

But Vanna just shook her head. “ _Non lo so, signore! Non lo so!”_

Ezio stared at her, thinking he’d by some malevolent trick been thrown into a nightmare.

Had this been done by _Il Rosso,_ Silvio Barbarigo? No, this had his kinsman Emilio’s cowardice written all over it, crude and ugly. Ezio had come too close, left too many bloody messages for his enemies. The merchant lord’s fear had gotten the better of his sense, and he’d sent his men to collect Leonardo, knowing that it would smoke the assassin out of hiding. Hurting the great maestro da Vinci would cost Barbarigo the Spaniard’s support, but perhaps he already knew that by taking Ezio’s life he would extend his own worthless one by a few more moments.

And he was right. He’d found the only thing in Venezia Ezio wasn’t willing to sacrifice for his vengeance. Without another word, the assassin stood up, and released poor Giovanna who wept in despair, testament to her master’s kindness.

Outside, the wind had picked up and was blowing gusts of rain down the streets and across the water, turning the lagoon city as black and doleful as she would ever get. Ezio started running back toward San Marco.

o o o

At the break of dawn, the last six hours felt like a fatigue-hazed dream.

In three wet and cold hours, Ezio had tracked down two of Emilio Barbarigo’s confidants. The first one had been sleeping in his bed — an obese banker, who would have sung like a bird with a hidden blade on his throat, had he just known anything worth saying. The other one was a guard captain fond of beating his women within an inch of their lives. Ezio had found him drinking the night away in a tavern. By then soaked and in a truly murderous mood, he’d thrown the man across half the furniture before even asking him the first question.

Both had sworn on their mothers’ graves that they knew nothing of Emilio’s plans for maestro da Vinci. The merchant lord himself was barricaded in the Seta, unreachable as always. The gatekeeper of the palace — a man Ezio had known for a long time and used to buy information on Barbarigo’s affairs — pledged on his (admittedly dubious) honor that no flamboyantly dressed, tall guest had been escorted in within the day.

Perhaps some angel was with Ezio that night, for he did not fall into his death from a slippery, dark roof, nor end up skewered on the blade of some lucky guard. With the dawn approaching, he finally admitted the futility of his search. Emilio had probably ordered his men to take Leonardo as far from the city as possible. By now, they could be anywhere — Terraferma, most likely, in some remote villa. Ezio had no choice but to return home and await his enemy’s next move.

The problem was, he had no home.

With the first of gray morning light painting out the wet streets, Ezio found himself at Leonardo’s bottega again.

The doors and shutters were closed, the house quiet and peaceful. For a second it occurred to Ezio that it might all have been an unfortunate misunderstanding. All noblemen carried weapons. Perhaps Vanna had mistaken Leonardo’s friends for guards? Leonardo _was_ absent-minded, after all. So much so that he sometimes forgot to tell anyone where he was going. What if he had just been invited somewhere, and was now sleeping safely in his bed? _My goodness, scimmietta, you do always expect the worst!_ He would laugh and shake his head and call for Vanna, and the girl would serve them mint tea and grappa while Leonardo patched up Ezio’s shoulder and scolded him for foolishness. And after having blushed enough to last half a lifetime, Ezio would sleep for a few hours in front of the fireplace, and then wake up to the familiar sounds of the workshop downstairs.

But when he tricked the balcony door open with his right hidden blade, it turned on its hinges to reveal a room as cold and deserted as when he’d last seen it hours ago. He went inside, closed the door, and stared into the darkness.

The rage that had driven him was gone. A sudden fatigue made his knees buckle. He barely avoided falling to the floor by collapsing instead to sit on a bench in front of the windows.

Beneath his water-logged clothes, his flesh felt like that of a corpse. The only part in him that was warm was the throbbing wound at his back. But far worse than pain or weariness was the fear that had for hours clawed at his chest.

He knew his enemies wouldn’t win anything by hurting Leonardo. They had to know it, too. Surely the man was too intelligent to resist, or try to escape? He was many things, but not a fighter. Ezio knew he’d done too many bad things for anyone in Heaven to listen to his requests, but even so, he prayed. _Please, dear Mother of God, let him come home unhurt. I do not care about his secrets. I do not care if he fucks men, or goats. Just let him come back._

Then, with a shudder, Ezio looked around. He had to do something, or he’d lose his mind.

Everywhere he looked, he saw another reminder of Leonardo. Papers full of the maestro’s sketches and backward writing. Books he’d read and made notes in. Models he had built, musical instruments he’d played. Candles burned low while he’d worked the night away. How many times had Leonardo beaten Ezio in a game of chess near that fireplace, on whose lintel stood the small wooden mannequin Ezio had gifted him two years ago? Back then, Leonardo had been chronically out of money, and so good-natured about it that it had been impossible for Ezio to chide him for it. Lately his situation had improved, but he still tended to keep his students better fed than himself (if not better clothed, as evinced by the extravagant capes and hats he’d tossed carelessly about).

There had to be something Ezio could do. His brain struggled in vain to come up with a plan. But all he could think of were things he should have done before. _I shouldn’t have kept him in the dark. I should have told him everything. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been so careless. Maybe then..._

Leonardo had translated pages of Altaïr’s journal; he already knew of Assassins and Templars. But in fear of placing him in danger, Ezio had not told him much of what happened in Venezia. Not of Antonio and his thieves, nor of the details of their plans. Now he sorely regretted his lack of trust. _He knew Paola. What else does he know? What if he was not even taken because of me..?_

No, that was just Ezio’s conscience trying to rid itself of guilt. “ _Merda_ ,” he muttered, and pushed back his hood to run his fingers through his hair. He was going to go mad, after all.

Then he noticed on Leonardo’s desk a familiar stack of papers, virtually unmoved from two weeks ago. He still remembered Leonardo stopping him from taking a look at them, and calling him nosy. Tired of secrets, he got back on his weary feet. He walked to the table and snatched up the papers. Nearly too exhausted to make sense of what he saw, he started leafing through the pile.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bitch to write. Thanks to Elenilote for patiently chiseling away at it with me.

The early hour made the room too dark to see anything. Ezio went back to sit on the window bench where, after opening a few shutters, the amount of light was still not much, but at least allowed him to peruse the lines of ink, chalk and silverpoint.

The papers were of different materials and sizes, some discolored with age. At first, the sketches and illegible backwards writing on them didn’t seem anything out of the ordinary.

Then he chanced on a drawing of Paola.

It was years since he’d last met the mistress of _La Rosa Colta_ , yet he knew her at once, her birdlike slenderness and thick weave of hair that showed no signs of going gray. As always in Leonardo’s portraits, the understated elegance of her attire was carefully calculated not to detract from her beauty — not unlike how the maestro selected his own.

Ezio could not for the life of him imagine where a high-class courtesan who moved among statesmen and cardinals might have met a bookish student of Verrocchio’s, young enough to be her son. Or that, at least, was how Ezio had always imagined Leonardo to have spent his youth; at a safe distance from brothels, gambling houses and other dens of vice, with his fine Greek nose pressed to a paper or project of some sort. He’d never asked about Leonardo’s past, nor had the man volunteered much about it.

Sketches of Ezio’s mother followed a few he couldn’t recognize. No surprise, there; Madonna Maria had doted on her favorite young artist before disaster struck. The faces unknown to him most likely belonged to friends or other students in Verrocchio’s workshop, or perhaps just random encounters Leonardo had found fascinating enough to immortalize. Ezio was starting to feel frustrated. He’d been expecting clandestine letters or ribald revelations. The drawings were beautiful — what work of Leonardo’s wasn’t? — but certainly nothing worth secrecy or shame.

He’d already abandoned hope of finding anything either damning or useful when, nearing the bottom, he was at last struck by something unexpected.

It took him a while to realize what he was looking at. The likeness wasn’t as remarkable as with Paola or his mother (at least, Ezio didn’t think he’d ever been _pretty_ like this youth.) Then, with a small shock, he recognized a somewhat idealized version of himself as a very young man. Suddenly it all fell into place, the fitted clothes and sultry eyes, and the brash confidence that, pitted against other hot tempers and easily-bruised honors, had once led Ezio into enough trouble for his mother to grow grey-haired before her time. Even the scar on his lip had been faithfully reproduced. At the time the sketch might have been made, the wound had still been raw and healing, and Ezio had loathed it — not because of vanity, but because it had been Vieri de’ Pazzi’s mark. Yet in Leonardo’s hands, even such flaws became something necessary to complete the whole. A lie, perhaps, but one masterfully told.

Another page and it was the same young man again, now sleeping in his father’s robes, later outgrown and refitted. This drawing was far too detailed to have been based on memory alone. Even so, its subject could again be called pretty, even beautiful, with his even, youthful features and thick lashes. But not an angel... not with that full, sensuous mouth, parted in sleep. The deep chiaroscuro Leonardo had employed seemed to represent some inner darkness rising from the young man’s unknown dreams.

Why had Leonardo felt necessary to draw him in secret? Ezio was far too vain to have refused, if asked to pose. But Leonardo never had.

He flicked through the remaining papers, awaiting to see other faces again.

But the rest of the sketches were all him.

A man grown, now. Standing, or sitting back with his face vaguely outlined, in shirtsleeves like a farm hand — Ezio was one of the few people who could tell it wasn’t. Only an exceptional visual memory could explain the painstaking attention with which his undress had been recreated. Or had Leonardo committed only the impression in his mind and allowed his imagination to create the rest? For surely Ezio did not in reality look as rough as these sketches made believe. The swell and shadow of muscle under his threadbare shift and breeches seemed masculine in excess of truth, the width of his back and shoulders molded by years of scaling walls and fighting, the thick column of his throat rising with the barest hint of square, stubbled jaw above. Even the dark fuzz on his arms and chest had been captured. The subject of Leonardo’s drawings appeared more like some ancient Roman slave or pagan god than the man Ezio was used to looking at in a mirror.

Was this really how Leonardo saw him, this graceful and menacing stranger, almost more animal than man?

The sketches continued with studies of his gear and dress, the many weapons at his hips, and his bracers and hidden blades. The back of his neck, thick club of hair rendered in Leonardo’s signature minutiae. Ezio could almost see his friend’s hand dance over the paper, effortlessly translating what his mind’s eye saw.

It didn’t have to mean anything. Leonardo’s way to see the world was to draw it. Often he wandered the streets with his notebook under his arm, sketching whatever happened to catch his eye. And he also made portraits of half-dressed women.

 _But not like this,_ whispered a voice in Ezio’s mind. The women in Leonardo’s paintings, however breathtaking, were completely devoid of longing.

These sketches... were not.

Cold sweat stole on Ezio’s skin.

Wasn’t it strange that for all his thinking over the past weeks, he’d never considered the possibility? He’d imagined his friend making love to a woman, in great detail, even. Yet if Leonardo really preferred men, was it unthinkable that he in fact wanted —

Ezio threw the papers on the bench beside him. He was just exhausted and overthinking. Even when he’d still been young enough to warrant the attentions of dirty old men, Leonardo had treated him with an almost exaggerated civility. It was unworthy, not to mention unthankful to read something lewd into his drawings. Certainly not that he —

What?

That he wanted to touch with his hand what his pen already had?

That he in fact wanted to kiss and embrace not little Tonio from the workshop or Sister Agnese from _La Rosa_ , but —

Ezio wiped his face with both hands, and shuddered. Where were these disgraceful thoughts coming from? He had no right to wonder what Leonardo wanted. With whom, and how. And given the chance, how he would go about it.

How would two men satisfy each other? Roughly, in all possibility, without a woman’s gentleness to restrain their lusts. It had to be a primitive, graceless affair.

But Leonardo was not like other men.

In a way, Ezio had already held his friend more intimately than any woman. A man’s contact with the opposite sex was always governed by rules of chivalry and ownership that dictated how and when a female could be touched. But with another man, no such inhibitions existed. Ezio had embraced Leonardo countless times, in private and in public. They’d walked the streets of Firenze and Venezia with their arms around each other. By now Ezio knew closely the shift and release of Leonardo’s muscles under his clothes, the hidden strength of his long, lean limbs. He knew the small wrinkles around Leonardo’s eyes when he smiled, the silky softness of his hair and how meticulously he cleaned and trimmed himself, as if to ward away not only the signs, but awareness of his mortality. He even knew that Leonardo was missing one of his teeth. Close enough, it was sometimes visible when he laughed.

It was strange, but entirely possible to imagine how it would have been like, to be held by Leonardo in something more than a brotherly embrace. Ezio only had to think of it, and he could almost sense the strength of Leonardo’s arms around him, the entirely male and tall body pressing against him. It was just Leonardo’s mouth on his own that he could not imagine. Would it be soft and gentle, or raspy and unyielding? And what would come after..?

Ezio tugged his hood deeper over his head, muttering and wiping his burning eyes, and shifted his legs on the bench. He was getting hard. He’d always been curious, but this... this was ridiculous. Somewhere Leonardo was being held imprisoned, perhaps tortured — and here Ezio sat, remembering his smile and scent and wondering how it would feel to kiss him.

Seemed that a man could truly want sex with anything. Even his handsome, good-smelling best friend.

Ezio was exhausted, his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe it would be better to lie down for a moment. The bed in the corner looked wide and inviting, bare for a change of any half-size flying devices. A woven coverlet on it concealed thick wintertime blankets and sheets. Knowing Leonardo, they would all be well washed and aired; no bed lice or ticks for maestro da Vinci, thank you very much — or heaven forbid, unseemly stains.

Getting up and walking across the room involved a feat of strength that, at the moment, rivalled climbing the Frari. At last Ezio threw himself on the bed, realizing only then that the bedding of course had Leonardo’s scent in it, through and through.

He groaned, but was too tired to get up again.

_I’ll just lie here for a moment. Then I’ll figure out what to do._

o o o

Hours later he shuddered back to reality, face pushed into the bolster, his hood bunched at his neck. He was cold from sleeping in his damp gear, and felt bruised where his weapons and buckles had dug into his flesh.

The dusk was long gone, replaced by pre-noon sunlight. In it, the world appeared unreal, intangible as if in a painting. From beyond the shutters, the clamor of peddlers’ shouts, animal cries and bootsoles striking against cobbles reached his ears. Aside from those sounds, the house should have been filled with noise from the workshop below. Instead, it seemed eerily quiet.

Groggy and aching, Ezio pushed up, to find that he was covered with a blanket he didn’t remember. His wounded shoulder throbbed, warm and tight.

He looked about and saw that on the window bench, Vanna was sitting bowed over a shirt and a needle. Her hands were still. When Ezio’s attempts to regain himself made the bed creak, she jerked up, wide-eyed under her prim white coif.

“Coming near a sleeping assassin is a bad idea, _ragazza._ ” _At least when said assassin isn’t too tired to wake even if a wagon drives over him._

“Forgive me, signore. You were shivering with cold — I thought —”

He held up a hand. He had to give her credit for courage. “Any news?”

She shook her head, grasping the kerchief over her bosom.

Ezio stood up. His cold muscles complained and his every joint creaked like an old man’s, but at least his legs no longer shook out of sheer weariness.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find him,” he said and went downstairs, hoping he could have felt as confident as he knew how to sound.

In the workshop, Leonardo’s assistants and students had gathered to sit in the middle of easels and workbenches and half-realized statues, silent and thoughtful. At the sight of the assassin, they sprang to their feet. Used to astonished and frightened stares, Ezio walked down the narrow wooden staircase. _They’ve never seen me like this... not so close, nor with my hood down._ Before reaching the floor, he opened his mouth to speak. But young Tonio, red-nosed and distraught (and somehow still as beautiful as a picture) beat him to it.

“ _You!”_ The boy’s voice trembled with rage, but he didn’t falter. Unbelievably, he had discarded the polite form of address required by Ezio’s status. “Did you have something to do with this? If you did — I swear, as God is my witness, I will take it to the highest court that I know and —”

 _I don’t have time for this_. Ezio stopped at the foot of the stairs and gave Tonio a level, mean stare. But the boy was too upset to interpret the menace on his face.

Fortunately the same could not be said of Leonardo’s assistants. At least, not the one who stepped in to stem the boy’s naïve threats.

“Shut up, you fool! You are in the presence of a nobleman!” He silenced Tonio with a slap across the face. The boy crumpled back on his stool, holding his cheek. Ezio had a feeling his fierce blush had more to do with anger than the chastening.

“My sincere apologies _,_ signore. _”_ The assistant bowed to Ezio. “We’re all beside ourselves with worry.”

Ezio felt little beyond impatience. “Do you have any idea who might be behind you master’s disappearance?”

“No, signore, maestro has no enemies.”

“Then you have no clues at all?” Only a frown betrayed how deep Ezio’s heart sank. “That is... unfortunate.”

The other assistant stepped in. “Well, there is one thing —”

The man actually flinched when the assassin’s attention latched on him.

The first assistant made a sharp gesture. “We have already talked of this! That man is an idiot, but he would not ruin his business with such a thing. Approaching him would just cause more trouble.”

“He’s crazy like all Mamluks. Maestro trusts too easily. We warned him.”

“ _Baggianate!_ Not even this fool would start a war over a tiny portrait!”

Ezio feared he was growing as frantic as little Tonio. “What the hell are you two talking about?” he bellowed, realizing a heartbeat too late that it was probably less than a smart move to make the men piss themselves.

The assistants shrank back, stopping just short of genuflecting, or perhaps begging for their lives. “A patron, signore!” the first one cried, bowing again, like a sock puppet. “A foreigner, who doesn’t understand how maestro works. An Egyptian spice merchant, and a very rich man. He wanted a portrait of his favorite wife.”

“And Leonardo couldn’t finish it?”

“ _Tutt’altro, signore, tutt’altro!_ Maestro worked on it day and night. He seemed fascinated by the woman’s coloring. But the Egyptian hated the finished result. He said that maestro had made his wife look ill-tempered and fat. _Bah!_ If he wanted a pretty lie, he should have hired one of the local hacks.”

“I think he was just jealous of his wife,” the other assistant piped in. “Those saracens rarely let infidels to see their women. The things he said when he came over...”

“He came here? What did he do?”

“He demanded his money back, a week ago perhaps. Before, he’d always sent his servants. When we pointed out that the terms of the contract had been satisfied, he yelled threats and raged and finally left, saying that were he not to receive compensation for the insult, maestro would live to regret it. After that, we’ve heard nothing of him. We imagined he’d set sail back to the Levant.”

So, Leonardo had at last gone and angered someone he shouldn’t — namely, someone who didn’t know who he was, and held no respect for his mighty protectors. Ezio squeezed his hands into fists. “Who is this man? Tell me!”

After receiving an Oriental name and directions to a waterfront palazzo along the Great Canal, he nodded. “I will pay a visit to this saracen. Wait here. If Leonardo is not with him, I will come back, and I expect you to work with me to find your master. Do you understand?”

“ _Sì, signore._ ” The assistants bowed. Tonio just looked away, defiant even after having lost face. Well, whatever the boy was, he was not a coward, either. 

Ezio pulled up his hood and left, for a change using the front door to do so.


	7. Chapter 7

The gondolier watched as his caped, heavily armed client jumped off the boat and grabbed one of the iron grills that covered the bottom windows of a nearby edifice.

The lunatic had paid quite well for a simple trip to Cannareggio. That was the only reason the gondolier hadn’t already called up the guard patrolling the nearby pier. Instead of raising his voice, he tilted his red pill cap and scratched his head. 

“Isn’t that illegal?”

His client — who was climbing nimbly enough to have already reached the elaborate _marcapiano_ between the first two floors — stopped and looked down. A grin flashed in the shadow of his hood. “She's very beautiful, _amico._ ”

The gondolier smacked himself on the forehead. “Ah. _L'amore!”_ Hand on the brim of his cap, he bowed and grabbed the oar of his boat. Humming a popular daring tune about a baker’s daughter, he maneuvered his vehicle from the narrow _rio_ to wider water again. Soon he was just one of the many gaudily dressed men that rowed their boats along the Great Canal.

Trying to ignore the stabs of pain that tormented the back of his shoulder, Ezio pulled himself up to a second-floor window and peered inside.

Lavish to the extreme, the master floor of the palazzo boasted actual glass windows. Where the sun’s rays hit them, they glinted like many-colored jewels. The sight was beautiful, but unfortunate — the thick, small panes of glass not only kept Ezio safely outside, but nearly prevented him from seeing in. Through them, things inside seemed distorted as if in a dream.

Save for what appeared to be the form of a lone servant cleaning a fireplace, the first room was empty. Ezio made his way along the wall. One of the chambers that looked over the narrow canal contained the colorful apparitions of what must have been women sitting on pillows, richly clothed in silk veils and robes, but otherwise, there was little of interest to see on the second floor.

At the corner, Ezio had to rest for a second. He really needed to see a barber soon. However, he was relatively sure he wasn’t going to fall dead within the next few hours or so — and as long as the same couldn’t for certain be said about Leonardo, his priorities were clear. He scaled the wall higher, finding easy purchase from its architectural structures.

At reaching the third and highest floor, which sported rows of opened shutters instead of iron grills or an expanse of impenetrable glass, he stole a look over a windowsill again.

The chamber he saw might have been intended for an important servant or an elderly relative. It was not as large as the rooms on the _piano nobile_ had been, but still, it seemed comfortable enough, possessed of a few old but decent furnishings. One of them was a small table, where Ezio could see the remains of a half-finished meal.

In front of it, Leonardo sat with his elbows on the table and his forehead pressed to his hands.

Ezio took a deep breath to keep from rushing in. By now, he’d been through enough close calls to possess a modicum of healthy paranoia. He schooled himself to remain calm, as Uncle Mario had taught, and carefully examined the room and its lone occupant.

The maestro was without hat or cloak, but otherwise he appeared to be dressed as if to meet friends, in a fashionably tight, short doublet with loosely laced sleeves and slashings to display the chemise beneath. The unusual dark hue of his clothes set off the fair color of his hair and skin. He seemed completely unharmed; Ezio could even see a dagger at his belt. But the way he sat, with those tightly clasped hands and tense shoulders — it was not the bearing of a man who had just forgotten the passage of time and remained overnight to meet a friend.

For a moment Ezio couldn’t tell what seemed so off, aside from the obvious sense of defeat in Leonardo’s posture — the maestro didn’t easily give in to negative emotions (sometimes Ezio wondered if he indeed was even capable of experiencing them). Then the assassin realized that he wasn’t used to seeing Leonardo do absolutely _nothing_. The man always worked on something — sketching, writing or reading — or at least gesturing animatedly while he spoke. Sometimes it seemed it would have been physically impossible for his hands and mind to remain still. To see him sit so silent and unmoving... something had to be very wrong. Ezio pulled himself higher.

Suddenly he heard footsteps from outside the room.

He cursed under his breath and dropped back behind the windowsill. He winced as his full weight fell on his injured shoulder. Three stories high above the darkly glinting surface of the _rio_ , he hung by his fingertips, boots perched for support against the plastered wall, and prayed that he would be able to remain so for a few minutes more.

Inside, he could hear Leonardo stand up. Then the door opened, and what sounded like a lone man stepped in.

“Messer da Vinci,” a deep voice said. “I see you have eaten. Good. I hope your meal pleased you.”

Only the faintest of accents betrayed that the speaker was not Italian by birth. Ezio quickly considered the position of the door he’d seen, and decided that it was unlikely that the man would be looking his way. He risked a quick glance over the sill.

The stranger’s dark face, black beard and outlandish clothing certainly belonged to a foreigner. A saracen, to be sure, with the turban perched high on his head and luxurious gold and silk robes; not corpulent nor weak of physique, however — on the contrary, he seemed a strongly built man. But if he was indeed a merchant, the jewel-studded sword and dagger at his belt were likely to be ceremonial.

Leonardo himself had shrugged away all signs of despair, and stood tall in his fitted dark clothes, pale profile like a knife against the backdrop of stone wall — proud and unafraid, not cowering like someone who didn’t know him might have expected from his gentle nature. Ezio hid behind the sill again, briefly wondering about the odd, tight feeling in his chest.

“Somewhat spicy for my tastes, signore,” Leonardo said. He sounded civil enough, if unusually cool. “And the wine had a very bitter taste.”

“Oh? I will personally flog the man who chose the cask. But enough.” Ezio could hear a smile in the saracen’s voice, tight and sharp. “Have you decided, messer da Vinci? A life of riches beyond your imagining awaits at your fingertips. All you need to do is join me on my ship as it sails today. Are you ready to experience the wonders of my great ancestral homeland?”

“I've already given you my answer, signore. What makes you think I have changed my mind in such a short time?”

“Ah.” The saracen sighed. “What a pity. You would have provided a great asset to my masters as they fight off the filth of Turk invasion.”

Leonardo laughed. _How come I’ve never noticed he’s such an actor?_   “I’m just a painter,” the maestro said, as if he could not believe his ears. “What good would come of _me_ in a war?”

The saracen also barked a laugh. “Nonsense. You’re an intelligent man, messer da Vinci, do not tell me you still think I hired you because I wanted a painting of my wife?”

“I have no idea what you could possibly mean, signore.”

Ezio could almost hear the Egyptian grin. “Truly? And here I thought of the two of us, _you_ were the genius! Let me enlighten you, maestro. My associates intercepted one of your letters to the Duke of Milan. I know you’ve put forth yourself to him as an engineer of war machines.” 

For a heartbeat, the shock made Ezio actually forget the pain in his shoulder.

The saracen continued to speak.

“Ah, you remain silent. Then we finally understand each other. A designer of weapons and defenses — who, I ask, could be more relevant to a war effort? I assure you, maestro, whatever you expect the Sforzas to compensate for your efforts, it can be matched by my masters tenfold. There is much more here at stake than your little hobby of painting concubines and saints.”

Ezio had sometimes wondered if his good-natured friend was capable of feeling angry. Now he received his answer. “You must release me immediately,” Leonardo said, without any sign of his earlier feigned amusement. The tone he now used was that of a man who would not tolerate being disobeyed. The change was quite impressive. “I have the ear of several members of the Senate and the protection of the Medicis. Keeping me here will create a diplomatic incident you will not wish upon the men you serve.”

The saracen hummed, almost sad. Ezio could hear him pace a little before he spoke again.

“I had a feeling this would be your response, maestro. The illusion of free will so often leads men astray. Thus I have taken.. measures to ensure your co-operation.”

“You intend to take me with you by force?” Leonardo’s imperious manner became even more pronounced. “You cannot be serious, signore! Guards patrol the s-streets...”

When Ezio heard Leonardo stutter, he immediately knew something was very wrong.

“It will be impossible to get me past them, ah... without incident. I am a very well... I mean, I am a well known... uh... _porca miseria!_ ” Leonardo seemed unable to finish whatever he was saying.

“I assure you, maestro, I am very serious,” the saracen said. “The sour wine and the spicy food — they were chosen for a reason. The milk of the poppy has a very bitter taste. No need to be afraid, my friend; you will recover. But not before we’re far beyond the lagoon.”

Ezio could hear Leonardo shuffle his feet. “What..?”

“You will be treated either like a king in my country, or an enemy. The only difference is whether you co-operate.”

“No!” Something, or someone, collided against what might have been a chair. “I refuse —”

“I am afraid that in this matter, you do not have a choice.” The saracen’s voice had become hard like glass. “May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

Ezio launched himself over the window, pulling his sword even as he rolled toward the saracen against the tiled floor.

But the man was no longer there.

Only well-honed instincts saved Ezio from being sliced open by a long, curved blade. He lunged to the side, arming his left hand with his stiletto, and spun toward where his enemy must be. But somehow the man had managed to flank him again. The assassin wheeled and raised his sword just in time to block another slash.

_Shit, fuck, and damn it all to hell — those are not ceremonial weapons, and this man is not a fucking spice merchant!_

Ezio had made a mistake that could prove fatal to any assassin. He’d taken things for what they seemed. From the first strikes, he knew he was outmatched. The Egyptian’s saber and dagger danced around him so fast it took all of Ezio's skill to keep them from shaving off pieces he desperately needed to go on living. Perhaps some other day he could have held his own for a while longer... but not now, not with the fiery pain that shot through his back with every impact of the saracen’s weapons against his own.

With a feint and a badly needed stroke of luck Ezio gained the initiative for a second. He landed a kick on the saracen’s flank, and to his relief saw his opponent fall. But the damned man hardly even lost a breath. Flowing back to his feet, he countered so fast it seemed inhuman.

Suddenly Ezio knew he was going to die. He was going to lose his life to this strange Templar from across the sea, who knew nothing of who he was, nor what he fought for. Even worse... he would die before learning the answer to all his questions.

Inevitably, one of the Mamluk’s curved blades connected, cutting through his sleeve and the skin beneath. The world spun as Ezio’s feet were swept from under him, and the impact of the tiled floor against his back struck the air from his lungs. His stiletto clattered away and a heavy boot pinned down his sword arm. He triggered his left wrist-blade but when the cold tip of a saber pushed against his throat, he froze.

Panting through clenched teeth, he looked up. The saracen was watching him with cold, dark eyes.

“Who are you?” the man demanded, his voice now more heavily accented. “Who sent you?”

Ezio knew that a failure to reply would result in his death. “The Medicis,” he said. _Too bad I’m not wearing the cape._ “After me, more will come. I suggest you release messer da Vinci immediately. He is under our protection.”

The foreigner’s dark eyes narrowed. He wasn’t buying it. The blade’s tip breached Ezio’s skin, drawing blood. “Do you take me for a fool, boy? The Medicis have no presence in Venezia! The hidden blade shows your true allegiance — your insane Order serves no earthly master! I will take your life, and after that, I will see to it that —”

Something heavy and large collided with the back of the saracen’s head.

The man’s expression went blank. Slowly he collapsed to his knees, then on his side to the floor, and his weapons clattered against the tiles. Ezio’s hand flew to his bleeding throat. He sucked in a breath he’d been holding to prevent the blade from cutting deeper.

Behind the heap of luxurious silks and sprawled limbs that was the saracen’s fallen body, Leonardo stood with a stupefied expression on his face, swaying on his feet. The heavy vase he held fell from his hands. It struck a deep note against the tiles, even as he himself lost footing and slipped, and fell on his backside.

Ezio rolled to sit and clutched his left hand to his body. Fortunately, the slash on his arm was superficial. The now constant, burning ache at the back of his shoulder was another matter.

“Did I kill him?” Leonardo asked. Ezio knew that the thought of having taken a human life would normally have horrified him. But now he sounded oddly detached, if more lucid than might have been expected.

Gathering his strength, Ezio knelt beside the saracen. The man moaned under his breath, eyelids twitching. The turban had slid from his head to reveal short and curly black hair. “He’s alive,” Ezio said, and raised his left hand. He hadn’t retracted the hidden blade on it. “But not for long.”

“What?” Leonardo blinked. “You’re going to kill him?”

Ezio grimaced. _He would have killed me!_ But he knew he couldn’t murder anyone in cold blood in front of Leonardo’s eyes. Not even a filthy Templar. Cursing under his breath, he pulled back the blade.

Soon he’d tied the saracen’s wrists and ankles with his own sash, and stuffed a kerchief in his mouth. With such a blow to the head, the man was likely to wake up with a headache severe enough to split his skull. If he also felt nauseous and suffocated on his own vomit, well... Ezio wasn’t going to feel too bad about it.

“Can you walk?” he asked as he helped Leonardo to stand.

“Of course I can walk!” With offended pride, Leonardo shrugged himself off. When he almost fell, Ezio caught him, and held him up.

“So I see.”

Due to his lessons on poisons, Ezio had heard of the milk of the poppy, which the Orientals used for recreation and medicine. But it was hard to come by outside the Levant, and he’d never witnessed it at work. Something told him that Leonardo wasn’t feeling the drug’s full effect, yet. 

“Interesting.” Leonardo blinked. “ _Opium_. That’s what they call it, in the East. It’s not unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. I should... I should make notes.” He groped at his jacket as if to retrieve the little notebook he always kept inside it.

On the floor, the saracen moaned more loudly through his gag. Ezio knew it wasn’t going to take long before someone came to check why the master of the house had been delayed.


	8. Chapter 8

The window offered the fastest escape, but there was no way they were going to use it. Even had Ezio not almost gagged at the thought of swimming in what was practically an open sewer, Leonardo would have been unable to remain on the surface in his condition. In fact, Ezio didn’t even know if his friend could swim. They had to find another way out. And it was likely that exiting through the front door would lead to more fighting — not something that Ezio looked forward to, for several reasons, some of which were still bleeding.

“Leonardo, listen.” He tried to sound like a man who knew what he was doing, instead of one who expected it all to end in a disaster, even if the latter was closer to truth. “This is not the time to start making notes. We have to get out of here. What do you remember from when you were brought here? How many guards did you see?”

Leonardo ran his hand through his hair. “Guards? Some — a lot, in fact — and everyone was speaking Coptic. _Oddio, mi sento strano._ ” His eyes were starting to glaze over. Ezio grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Leonardo — _ehi!_ Stay with me!”

 _Shit._ It was Ezio’s worst fear that Leonardo would become either delirious or lethargic. And right now it seemed like he was heading in both directions. Ezio wasn’t entirely certain that he would be able to haul the man out in case he lost consciousness.

At being shaken, Leonardo looked up again.

“ _Amico!_ ” Ezio growled. “You need to stay focused!”

The maestro’s expression brightened. He pulled the younger man into a great hug.

“Ezio! _Sei venuto!”_ Leonardo laughed. _“Mio caro fratello, non ci posso credere! Questo è meraviglioso!_ I thought I was done for — what would I do without you?”

Well, at least Leonardo wasn’t about to keel over and fall asleep, Ezio thought as he was pounded on the back. For just a heartbeat, he allowed himself to take comfort in the familiar strength and warmth of Leonardo’s presence — devil take malicious rumors and suspicions of more than brotherly tenderness. _My dearest friend, I do not know what I would do without you, either._ Then he tried to extricate himself without hurting the maestro or his feelings.

“Yes, I am here. Now I have to get you out. Please, do you know anything that — um —”

His words faltered as he was pinched on the cheek.

“What an awful man, that Egyptian! But he has the most beautiful young wife — I’m sure you would agree. Well, of course you would! You’re _terrible_ with women. _Madonna mia,_ she was amazing. Deep brown skin and green eyes, and her hair — _incredibile —_ _giuro che non ho mai visto una donna così bella in vita mia_...”

For some reason it annoyed Ezio to listen to Leonardo’s praise. Maybe seeing the drawings had stroked his vanity? Currently it did not look like Leonardo was harboring any particularly obscene feelings toward him. On the contrary, Ezio was being treated like a twelve-year-old.

“Leonardo —”

“It took me two days to mix the right colors. Two days! _Dio mio_ _—_ ” Leonardo gazed into the distance. “Perhaps I _should_ travel more? Who knows all the colors humans can be? There must be races we do not even know of, yet, places where people are red, or green, or —”

“Leonardo!”

The man blinked and swayed, and came back to reality — or at least, relatively close. “Yes?”

“Can you try to stay silent? We’re in great danger.”

“ _Ma certo, scimmietta!_ I won’t say another word.”

_I seriously doubt that._

But to Leonardo’s credit, he only muttered to himself on occasion while Ezio collected his weapons.

Beyond the door opened a deserted, unassuming hall, intended for servants to move between the piano nobile and their own quarters. Trying to stay alert to any signs of danger, Ezio held Leonardo’s arm around his shoulders and started to lead his now definitely very intoxicated friend toward a wooden staircase in the far corner.

“Ezio, you’re bleeding on me,” Leonardo said after a moment, with great emphasis as if telling the other man something he couldn’t possibly know. “You should let me take a look. It could get infected.”

“It’s just a flesh wound. Please, keep quiet.”

At the top of the stairs, Ezio stole a look down. _Empty._ With any luck, the staircase would continue to the ground floor that way. He had a feeling they wouldn’t get away so easily, however — especially since they weren’t exactly making breakneck speed, what with a certain rather teetering genius wrapped around his shoulder.

“I must say, these Orientals seem like a learned and intelligent race. Even this Egyptian, well — last night we discussed the latest developments of Hippocratic arts in Alexandria, and it was terribly interesting. Did you know that you can tell a man’s temperament by the shape of his skull? What an exciting idea!”

“ _Merda_ , Leonardo..!”

“Oh, God, I forgot! _Chiedo venia, amico mio_.”

 _Goddammit, aren’t people supposed to become_ slower _when drugged..?_

The stairs were steep and creaked with every step. After a moment of trying to both proceed faster than a snail and keep the maestro from tumbling down to his death, Ezio was sweating profusely and muttering curses under his breath.

As if things weren’t bad enough already, it soon became impossible to try to keep Leonardo from talking.

“The latest invention in Eastern physiognomy. Inconveniently, most humans have hair. A man well versed in the art could immediately see their nature, otherwise. Not that there is anything wrong with hair. Heads would be quite boring without it. And — _santo cielo!_ What if facial features are significant, too? The shape of one’s nose, for instance? All things in nature have a purpose, perhaps symmetry of appearance reflects symmetry of thought. Oh, but I do know ugly individuals who are pleasing and intelligent, and many beautiful people who are... well... not. So it cannot be anything so very simple. But few things in the Creation are as straightforward as they seem on the surface. What if —”

Ezio was beginning to wonder if, in case the drug failed to knock Leonardo unconscious, he should do it himself.

They lucked out and the small room they arrived to on the second floor was also empty. Perhaps the household was busy preparing for the journey elsewhere. Dragging the obliging but extremely loquacious master artist down another staircase, Ezio started to hope against hope that Fortune would keep smiling on them.

“—and then it occurred to me! The motion of thought in the brain is similar to that of water in its course. If one’s mind is disorganized, the currents fight for space and counter each other. The will of mind, the intelligence — they are man’s ability to make ideas and appetites flow and work together in harmony. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“Not really,” Ezio muttered.

“Ah! Then I have not explained myself clearly enough! Let us see if I cannot make— _mmph!_ ”

Leonardo flailed to keep his balance as Ezio pushed him against the wall, a gloved hand on his mouth.

Beyond the last bend of the staircase, armored feet were marching into the courtyard where they had been heading. The heavy stomping and hiss of metal against metal continued for a long while. Its orderly, military cadence did not sound good. Not good at all.

Finally the marching stopped. A man’s brusque voice started to speak.

The language was not one Ezio could recognize, let alone understand. Regardless, the speaker’s tone conveyed his intent. Ezio was listening to an officer giving orders to his men. And from the sound of it, those underlings were more likely to consist of a score of well-trained, well-armed soldiers than a laid-back family guard.

_Shit. Exactly what I feared._

“ _Mmmh. Mhhz? Mfhsfm —”_

Unbelievably, Leonardo was trying to speak through the hand on his mouth. Ezio stood on his toes. “Shut. Up,” he hissed in Leonardo's ear.

The mumbling stopped. Ezio held his breath and listened.

For an ominous moment all was quiet.

Then the officer started speaking again. Perhaps he had just been examining his troops? Ezio released an unsteady breath. _This is bad._

They had to return the way they’d come. But how the hell was he going to get Leonardo back up without everyone hearing? Ezio considered a gag, but he doubted the maestro would submit willingly to such a thing — not that Ezio was even in the possession of anything suitable for the purpose.

Then again, Leonardo _had_ finally stopped trying to speak.

Ezio turned his head. In the half shadow, close enough for his breath to tickle Ezio’s face, Leonardo was watching him with half-lidded eyes.

Suddenly Ezio became aware of how very tight they were pressed together. Leonardo’s chest rose and fell in contact with his own, and by accident of pose, the maestro’s leg had been trapped between Ezio’s and pushed up against his groin.

A drop of sweat rolled down Ezio’s neck. At least ten enemies lurked behind the corner. His wounds hurt. And somehow he was still starting to get excited. Or maybe it happened because of those things? _God, I’m a pervert._ He tried to clear his mind and breathe even, like he’d been taught. But the way Leonardo’s thigh rubbed against him... he had to withdraw, to keep something awful from happening, but he was afraid that a creak of his gear or a clinking weapon would give them away.

Then Leonardo’s blue eyes blinked slowly.

Was it a gesture of understanding? Ezio couldn’t be sure. But it was all he had. After a bit of hesitation, he moved his hand away.

_Thank God. He’s not speaking. He’s finally come to his —_

“Ezio, why are you behaving so strangely?” Surprisingly alert, Leonardo swatted Ezio’s hand away as it tried to muzzle him again. “Stop that. Why don’t we just go and —”

Ezio pushed up and closed Leonardo’s mouth with his own.

There was little time to take it all in. The way their noses collided. The muffled sound from Leonardo’s throat. The scratch of Ezio’s stubble against his short beard, not as soft as he’d imagined. Neither were the lips pressed to his own. Ezio pushed Leonardo against the wall and heard a guttural moan, and realized to his horror it had come from his own chest.

 _No. No way. Fuck —!_ He pulled away.

It had worked. Leonardo was staring at him in spaced-out silence.

But it was already too late.

When he heard a pair of heavy boots stomp their way, Ezio shoved Leonardo behind his back. Too soon to flee or really even think, a man’s shape appeared up the twisting staircase; a soldier with skin as dark as the night, encased in a long chainmail shirt and a spiked, round helmet. Ezio grabbed him by the baldrick and yanked him deeper into the stairwell. Before the man could even open his mouth to yell, a hidden blade buried itself in his face.

Ezio eased the soldier’s weight against the stairs. Behind him, Leonardo was trying to scramble up and backwards; fortunately, he was too drugged to manage more than fall over and sprawl on his back on the steps.

“ _Yossef?_ ” the officer called.

No escape, now. Ezio fingered a pouch on his belt. _I know I ask too much of you, sweet Maria, Mother of God, but I swear I will confess and leave alms at every shrine I see — just don’t let me die now, not when_ he _is at stake..._

He walked down the stairs, into a bright, arcaded courtyard, where a dozen heavily armed, dark-faced soldiers stood staring his way. In front of them a tall man turned, marked as their leader by his fine gear and air of authority. He opened his mouth to shout an order, and his hand flew to his sword, but before either could come out, Ezio had thrown the object he held in his hand against the stone floor, where it broke with an unassuming crack. Thick smoke poured out, blinding everyone in the courtyard, and Ezio’s blades hissed as they left their sheaths.

o o o

It had started to rain — a cold, grey November drizzle that made everything wet.

It was almost incomprehensible that out of everything that was going on, Ezio would notice how Leonardo’s hair curled in the damp weather. Or the way water started to drip from the tip of his long, straight nose, as he was dragged away from the Mamluk’s palazzo by a limping and rather worse for wear assassin, who tried to make them appear invisible to guards and like two gentlemen a bit too far into drink to all others. A formidable task, considering that Ezio was bleeding from several cuts and had pulled something in his shin — yet somehow he succeeded in getting them through the streets without notice. Perhaps the ill weather was to thank for avoiding any further trouble.

Amazingly, Leonardo remained silent. It made things marginally easier. In fact, he did not say a single word before they’d reached the waterfront and Ezio had succeeded in maneuvering them both into a gondola and under the cover of its felza.

“Why did you kiss me?” Leonardo asked. For a man drugged out of his mind, he sounded ominously clear-headed.

“ _In nome di Dio,_ ” Ezio hissed. But he knew no one could hear or see them. The boat was already gliding toward the channel, the sky breathed soft rain against its felza, and outside, the gondolier had started to sing, drowning out any words that were spoken by his clients.

He didn’t need this. Not after battling what felt like half the Venezia over the course of less than twenty-four hours. And he loved women. He adored them. Their soft bodies. Their plump mouths, their smooth skin, their wet, tight —

“You kissed me. It wasn’t a dream,” Leonardo muttered, as if trying to make his garbled brain work itself around the memory and find its cause.

“I had to shut you up!” Ezio was looking wildly everywhere. _Men kiss on the lips, to greet friends or relatives. He’s making more of it than it was._

“That does not make sense,” Leonardo said slowly.

He’s _dosed with the milk of the poppy, and_ I’m _the one who’s not making sense..?_ Ezio sputtered, and turned.

The gondola had reached the Great Canal, and they swayed on the bench as it tilted against the waves. Outside, the gondolier kept singing; the rain kept coming. Strands of thick blond hair had fallen across Leonardo’s averted face, damp and unruly instead of their usual carefully combed perfection. His features were not sweet and enticing like a woman’s, but they were perfect in how they reflected his great intelligence and curiosity and genuine affection for the world around him. Suddenly all Ezio could think of was Leonardo’s wide, beautiful mouth, capable of saying such outrageous and wonderful things and laughing at what would have crushed other men with fear.

 _Mother of God, have mercy._ He panicked again.

“What, you think I actually _want_ to kiss _you?_ ” He laughed, an ugly, insulting sound.

Leonardo raised his head, frowning. Then his eyes widened.

The punch, when it came, didn’t hurt that much, since Leonardo was still unable to completely control his physique. Nonetheless, it was undeniably an act of violence.

_He hit me. The man who buys caged birds to set them free and can barely hurt animals to eat them. He thinks I’m worse than a beast._

_And maybe I am._

Of course Leonardo didn’t want him. It wasn’t _Leonardo_ who was disgusting. It was Ezio himself. As usual, he just wanted to fuck and foul everything he saw. Was that revulsion he saw on his friend's face? The worst part was knowing that it was justified. _How long have I lied to myself?_

Then Leonardo turned green. “I don’t feel too good,” he said.

There was barely enough time to get the great maestro out of the felza and shove his head and shoulders over the boat’s side. Pretending not to notice the curious glances from the fondamente and the boats passing by, Ezio held his friend’s hair as he retched violently and spewed out everything he’d eaten little more than an hour ago into the churning water.

“ _Dio mio,_ I’m going to die,” Leonardo groaned between attacks of nausea, pasty white and shivering, wet from the rain. “I’m dying. I know it. Oh God —” He turned, leaned back over the boat’s side and threw up again.

There was a snort from behind them. Ezio looked toward the sound and saw the gondolier fail to hide a wide smirk beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

He gave the man such a murderous stare that for the rest of the trip to San Polo, the poor bastard concentrated on trying to appear nothing more than a fixture of his own gondola.


	9. Chapter 9

Out of all the men that Ezio had failed to kill, only the barber who treated his wounds that day could thank a needle and a bit of catgut for his life. No one except Ezio’s mother and Uncle Mario had ever given him such a hard time for anything. Fortunately — in some sense at least — pain took over before he could strangle the man, who was after all just doing his meagre best to keep him alive.

In time, Ezio drifted back to consciousness, face down on the wooden pallet which he’d not long ago basted with his sweat, blood and tears. Now most of them had been washed away, and a thin blanket had been thrown over his half-naked body. Grunting and queasy, Ezio sat up and brushed his filthy hair back with his hand.

There _had_ been times he’d felt better. The freshly sutured wound at his back throbbed, and the smaller cuts and scrapes stung as he moved. He was exhausted, nauseous... and also, possibly the worst _codardo_ the world had ever had the misfortune of carrying.

“Signore, you must rest,” the barber called from across his small, dark shop, when he noticed Ezio’s attempt to get up. “You came far too late, your blood has been —”

“Yes, yes, I heard,” Ezio grumbled. He didn’t want the litany of should-have-dones to start again. Trying once more, he managed to get on his feet — and miraculously, even stay on them.

“ _Va bene_. But it will not be on my conscience if your humors flame up mortally and you die.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on doing so at your doorstep.” Ezio started pulling on clothes and gear.

The task turned out to be harder than he’d feared.

Finally done, he paid the barber from what little coin he had, and left.

In _La Rosa,_ Teodora was blessedly nowhere to be seen. Ezio rested for a few hours in the tiny chamber reserved for his use at the attic, then gathered the few things he needed — no translated Codex pages among them, regrettably — and late in the afternoon, paid a peasant for a passage on a cabbage-strewn barge to Mestre, where he rented a horse and rode out to the flat mainland beyond.

A well-traveled road through the hibernating fields and villages of Terraferma took him to the billowing countryside of Padova, then to Ferrara where a condottiere’scamping army forced him to a detour. From there he rode to Bologna, and finally Toscana, past mighty Firenze herself, stretching in magnificent repose on the banks of Arno — her roofs and campaniles an aching vision he took care to pass at a distance.

By the time he reached Villa Auditore, a week after leaving Venezia, he’d developed a fever, and the leaking wound at his back was so painful it would not let him sleep.

It took over two months for him to make full recovery from the infection. By that time the year had long since changed, and almond trees were blooming as the first sign of approaching spring.

_**Monteriggioni 1483** _

“Mother, I have come to say farewell.” 

Madonna Maria’s bent head did not move. Her crossed hands did not leave the cover of the great bed by which she was kneeling, surrounded by morning light that shone into her room through thin white curtains.

Only a pale shadow remained of the strong, proud woman she’d been. Her thick, dark braid was half grey, her face withered, as was the body inside her silk robe, once the envy of every noble-blooded mother in Firenze. With a pang of guilt, Ezio felt glad he did not see her more often. In Venezia, he could remember her how she’d been years ago. Here in Monteriggioni she was nothing but a husk of his beloved mother. But even worse than her physical decline was the knowledge that he’d been the one to fail her. After all these years, he’d proved unable to track down and kill all the men responsible for their family’s demise.

Leaning at the bed, he placed a long white feather near his mother’s hands. Her lips continued to shape the soundless words of Credo, Pater Noster and De Profundis. Where her thoughts travelled, he could not say — locked around old memories, perhaps, as tight as her bony fingers around her old, worn rosary.

After a few moments of silence beside her, he left and headed downstairs to his sister’s office.

“ _Salute_ , Claudia,” he said, walking in.

Despite it being only late morning, she already occupied the writing desk, working, clad in a simple, dark dress, a quill in her narrow hand, a heavy ledger and a stack of receipts open in front of her. How strange that out of the two of them, she would prove the one to have soaked in the banker’s skills and nature. An abomination, truly — but Uncle Mario had insisted, and against Ezio’s expectations and objections, Claudia had excelled as the steward of the Villa.

She glanced at her brother’s assassin robes and weapons — a marked change from the simple nobleman’s garb he’d chosen to wear until now. She looked him in the eye, as hard and bold as any man.

“Ezio. Not here to take a look at the book, I take it?”

“No. I’m leaving.”

“Are you sure you’re well enough to travel?”

“I’m fine. I will depart as soon as I eat something and get my horse.”

Despite her concern, Claudia did not seem too disappointed. It was no secret that their relationship was often strained.

“ _Va bene._ If you need coin, take some out of the box,” she said.

Ezio stiffened a little. Was she trying to insult him? She had to know he’d rather die than be supported by his baby sister. Such masculine confidence did not suit an unmarried girl. Young women belonged in the nursery, not the _scrittoio_ , a fact she was long overdue to recall.

“I don’t need your money, _bambina_. In any case, you need it yourself, for your dowry.”

Claudia frowned. “Brother, we’ve talked about this —”

Ezio waved his hand. “This time I’ve spoken to Zio about my concerns, and he agrees. When I come back, I expect to see you engaged, like you should have been years ago.”

With exaggerated care, Claudia placed the quill in its stand and stood up, very straight and slender in her unadorned dark dress. “You’re not my father, Ezio. By the Virgin, you’re not even the head of the family! How dare you give me orders?” She did not shout, yet her voice carried every ounce of her insulted pride.

Was this really the girl who in Firenze had cared for nothing else than her suitors and frippery? The change was unseemly.

“Talking back to me, now, _sorella_? You know full well that as your brother I’m your guardian. Can’t you see that this way of life does not suit you? I have to do something on your behalf before you lose all your feminine appeal. Look at your clothes! You dress like a widow already. I knew Uncle is letting you live too freely, but —”

Claudia stiffened. “Do not speak ill of Uncle! Without him, I would still be a useless, unhappy child. But you — I know you do not care for my happiness. If you could, you would lock me up in my chamber, force me on the first willing vagabond you see!”

Ezio was starting to grow angry. “Claudia, you know I will do nothing of the sort! But neither will I have our family name slandered because my little sister has become a free-talking slattern.”

“Says the man who makes a whore of every woman he sees.” Claudia’s voice became poisonous. “How many brats have you already begotten on your concubines, brother? Sons and daughters who cannot carry our name any more than any child of mine? It is _you_ who should take a wife — but that is a responsibility you will not shoulder. No, it is _me_ who must sacrifice my freedom and my —”

“Freedom?” Ezio cried, appalled by her language. “I am not free, any more than — God, why am I explaining myself to you?” He looked away and controlled his temper. Women and their unbridled emotions..! He was a man, he was supposed to master his feelings, even more so when they concerned the weaker sex.

How had she grown to be so selfish? She was not free to do as she chose, no more than him. God had ordained, making her a woman. It was her duty to obey. And Ezio would make sure their family would not die childless, their name extinguished. In any case, Claudia was wrong about not being able to carry on their lineage. Should she marry below her status, it would be decreed that her children would take her name and become part of the Auditore family, not that of her husband.

“I would not see you left alone, _bambina,_ ” he said, after a silence.

“I am not alone! I have Zio, and mother, and —”

“They’re getting old. And I could die any day.” Ezio looked at her darkly, and pointed a gloved finger. “I will _not_ fail my task as your brother. You _will_ marry. To prove that I do care for your happiness, I give you a year to find a man you like. Due to our situation, I will not even object to a commoner, as long as he’s an honorable man. But fail, and I _will_ choose someone, and drag you to the priest in chains if I have to.” He turned on his heel, not wanting to listen to her objections.

But at the door, he was stopped by her quiet voice.

“You are alone, too, brother.”

Only three months ago he would have argued, in his mind at least. _I am not alone_. _I have a far better friend than I deserve._ But now the thought stung, bitter as regret. Keeping his silence, he walked away and knew that, without even realizing it, his little sister had gotten the last word.

At the breakfast table, Ezio found himself thinking of what she’d said, and of other words — ones spoken years and years ago at a monastery courtyard stained by blood and revenge.

_The Auditore are not dead! I’m still here! Me, Ezio! Ezio Auditore!_

No, they were not dead. But were they really alive, either? A dishonored, crippled house living in exile; a daughter with little hope of a deserving husband, a dumb mother withering away in prayer, a childless, aging zio who sometimes drank too much and gazed for hours into a fireplace. And a son who was starting to forget even the memory of a normal life. Ezio was not by nature inclined to melancholy or contemplation, but now he wondered whether he would live long enough to see his family avenged and its name restored. It seemed that whenever he crossed a name off his list, two others appeared. And men of his profession were rarely destined for long lives and achieving all their earthly ambitions.

After too much wine, Uncle Mario sometimes spoke of assassins he’d known long ago. All gone, now, and none of them by natural causes. Had they sons or daughters? Were they married? Where were the ones who still lived? The enemy in its strength was not afraid to wed or flaunt their fortunes. But the Assassin Brotherhood seemed scattered, failing. The fate of Giovanni’s house shed sad light on why Uncle Mario lived companionless, always prepared for war, with no dependants to fall destitute in the event of his death. In his uncle, Ezio saw his own future. An outcast, a lone soldier who only existed for the Order. Should he ever marry and have children, he knew he would not bring them to the Villa. He would keep them secret and far away, for their own protection.

And what kind of life would that be? How painful to be deprived of the company of his family and never know the comfort of a home? No, better to keep to his lonely ways and his circle of whores and thieves.

For a moment Ezio even wondered if it wasn’t also better that Claudia did not want to marry.

o o o

Two days later Ezio steered his horse along the streets of Firenze, disguised as a pot-bellied merchant of middling means.

The great city did not seem much changed from three years ago. It still buzzed with life, with the colors of rivalling houses strung proudly from neighboring windows, where women loitered to see and comment on the passers-by. At _squero_ corners, the same boastful and belligerent gangs of young men kept watch over their territory, even if the followers of the Auditore and the Pazzi were no longer among them. Riding past without notice, Ezio marveled at the meagre ambitions of his youth. Would he really have been content to go through his life without knowing anything beyond these streets? He would never know.

The Palazzo della Signoria stood strong and immense as always, an armor of stone around the city’s heart, its bell tower the place where Ezio’s father and brothers had spent their last night in this world. He walked in through a side door, allowed to do so just like any free and honorable man, on excuse of having been robbed when arriving to the city. A dozen or more of such complaints were brought to the Signoria every day. Indeed, even now there were at least four men with their retinues shouting in the hall, incensed by the injuries and insults they had suffered and now sought to balance in front of law and magistrates.

Ezio had no use for such justice. After some maneuvering of coin between hands, he gained access to the archives. A clerk brought to him a heavy court record book, and at his gesture, placed it on a pedestal and opened it at a certain page.

Not ten minutes later, Ezio left the Signoria. Instead of continuing at once on his journey, he headed for a familiar brothel near the Duomo.

His disguise held. No one in _La Rosa Colta_ recognized him. Paola of course would not have been fooled for a heartbeat, but due to lucky circumstance, the Madame was nowhere to be seen. Ezio acted his part, paying the entrance to prove he had the means, then circling the room at the heels of an older woman who showed him the wares, and praising the offerings of the house — as well he should have, since it was the best brothel in Firenze, well beyond what he could without regret afford.

Instead of one of the younger and prettier girls, he chose a slightly older woman who had worked in the establishment for years and years, and was well known to be a gossip. She feigned admiration at his protruding gut and fawning ways, and clung to his elbow — as oblivious to his true identity as he could have wished. He was getting very good at costumes. He’d chewed on herbs to stain his teeth, and dark paint, paddings of hay, an ugly wig and bad carriage had transformed the rest, even if he could do nothing about his broad shoulders and the shape of his face.

“What a pretty thing you are,” he sing-sang in an oily voice while leading the woman toward the stairs. “I had heard Firenze boasts the most beautiful girls, but such a flower, I never knew...”

Despite his less than savory appearance, the courtesan preened and giggled like a young girl. “ _Che dolce! Grazie mille, padrone_. _”_

“It is a wonderful city, Firenze — I hear it is the past home of that great painter, Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Oh, yes! I have met him personally,” the woman said, proving just as boastful as he remembered.

“Truly? Here? That is extraordinary,” Ezio exclaimed, and looked around. They were almost at the stairs, now. He lowered his voice and head conspiratorially. “You know — great artists are a particular interest of mine. I would pay very well to hear any stories. Since you obviously know the maestro, you must have heard some rumors. For instance, I’ve been told that he’s a good friend of the Madame of this house. Is that true?”

“Why, yes —”

Suddenly the woman blinked. She checked herself, and fear crossed her face. “ _Chiedo venia,_ messere. I cannot speak of these matters. The rules, you must understand... I would be thrown out.”

 _Not as foolish as I had hoped, after all._ Looking around again, Ezio pulled her closer, as if unable to keep his hands away from her. “Marsilia, do not shout, now, but it is me,” he whispered in her ear, discarding his acting voice.

The woman’s eyes widened as she recognized him. “Signore! What — _non capisco_ — why are you dressed like that? Why did you —”

“Please, _bellissima,_ keep your voice down. I am on a very dangerous mission.” Ezio gave her a fetching grin, trying to charm her even through his disguise.

It seemed to be working. She melted visibly, softened by his trust, and perhaps by the memory of his true appearance. “It is imperative that you tell me everything you know about maestro da Vinci,” Ezio continued. “I cannot tell you why, _bella mia._ But know that his life is in grave peril.”

The woman nodded eagerly. This was the second reason he’d chosen her; she was not famous for her powers of deduction. “The maestro is in danger? _Terribile!_ Of course I will tell you what I know, messer Ezio! Every girl who worked here knows the maestro very well. He came here as a young man, after he had —”

“ _Marsilia!”_

The woman blanched and froze, mouth open around a half-uttered word.

Ezio turned toward the voice. From the shadows near the stairs, the mistress of _La Rosa Colta_ appeared, silent as a thought. Bewildered, Ezio realized she must have been standing close to them all the while. Not only that; she must have recognized him from the start.

Then again, she _was_ the woman who had taught him to hide in plain sight and how to turn into someone he wasn’t. So perhaps he should not have been surprised.

“Go back to the others, Marsilia,” Paola said with a cool tone of voice.

The courtesan fled without a backward glance. Ezio bowed to the Madame.

“ _Buongiorno,_ Ezio.” There was little of Paola’s usual captivating warmth in the way she now regarded him from head to toe. Over the past three years, she’d not grown much older; her hair was still thick and dark, the small lines in her skin barely noticeable, even though she avoided the thick makeup favored by many to conceal the passing of time.

“What brings back you to lovely Firenze, looking so fine, no less?”

“Why, the beauty of the women, of course,” Ezio said with a boyish grin. 

As fast as a snake, Paola stepped forward and slapped him. “No smart words, _ragazzo!_ ” she said, a finger raised for emphasis. “If you have no reason to be here other than trying to break a most sacred trust between me and a dear friend, it is better for you to go back the way you came. I’m sure you have your work cut out for you in Venezia.”

Ezio froze. In another life, he would have struck her down right there. _Who is she to hit me, a nobleman — a whore!_ But she was also the woman who had saved him, his sister, and his mother. Even more, she’d helped to make Ezio into what he was. Seething within, he pushed aside the injury to his honor, and stayed his hand.

“ _Mi dispiace,_ Madonna, _”_ he said. “I am just passing through. There are... rumors... I have heard. I am trying to find if there is any truth to them.”

“These rumors concern our mutual friend, do they not? Ezio, why have you not asked the man himself? He loves you beyond reason! Wise or not, he will probably tell you anything, if you ask!”

Ezio frowned. _Ask him? Just like that?_ He’d honestly not even considered the possibility.

“Leonardo does not love me,” he said, still stiff and fighting his pride. “I insulted him before I left Venezia, months ago. We did not part on friendly terms. He probably does not even want to see me.” _To say the least._ Ezio still remembered the way Leonardo had looked after hitting him in the gondola, disbelieving and hurt. And when Ezio had brought Leonardo to the bottega, he’d only replied with a shake of his head to the farewells he’d been offered. There was the fact that he’d still been puking his guts out and almost unable to speak... but even so, his brusque manner had been unheard of.

Paola’s delicate eyebrows climbed. “Leonardo, not wanting to see you? I find that very hard to believe, _ragazzo._ ”

“Why?”

She sighed, and waved her hand. “I repeat, it is him you must speak to, not me. Come, Ezio, let me escort you to the door. This visit should never have happened.” She turned and glided across the sala. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed. What else was there to do? He walked in her footsteps to the entrance, trying his best not to look like a whipped dog, even as he knew that the gossiping courtesan would soon spread knowledge of his visit among her companions. Already he could notice curious glances.

At the door, Paola was her smiling, suave self again. He sensed she would have kissed his cheek, but between some random merchant and a woman of her position, such an intimate gesture would have been unseemly. “Write to me, _ragazzo,_ ” she said. “You know the cipher.” 

Ezio bowed. Paola nodded and closed the door at his face, locking behind it both herself and the answers to his questions.


	10. Chapter 10

**_La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia 1483_ **

“That is an impressive scar, my son.”

Ezio did not have to ask which one of his scars Sister Teodora spoke of. Ugly and new, it spanned a hand and a half across his right shoulder blade. It had taken several weeks to heal, over the winter in Villa Monteriggioni; the memory of the boiling oil and leeches involved still made Ezio flinch. Uncle Mario had not been pleased with how he’d neglected to have his wound treated soon enough. Now, the scar would remain a permanent reminder of his foolishness.

Ezio pulled the shirt he held over both freshly washed skin and scars. He was unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed that Teodora had only stepped into the room _after_ he’d gotten his breeches on.

Behind his back, the Sister’s habit made a soft brushing sound against the floorboards. “Here you are,” she said and placed a pile of clothing and gear on a nearby bed. “I beg of you, try not to get blood stains on them immediately, _sì?_ ” she asked.

“Of course. I thank you for your kindness, Madonna,” he said and made to dress.

Teodora stood back to watch him from beneath her veil, hands clasped beneath her corseted breasts as if in mock piety. Much too aware of how the Madame assessed his every move, Ezio first pulled on the chausses and boots, then the doublet. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but her gaze held in it far too little admiration and far too much calculated appraisal, like that of someone choosing a _cane corso_ for a bear fight.

The slashed, beribboned sleeves were beyond him to attach, and she stepped in to help.

“I’m still not sure of this plan,” Ezio muttered as she threaded silk lace through tiny eyelets in bodice and sleeve, loose enough to allow white lawn to spill from between.

“An assassin is an actor by necessity. You’ve used this ruse before to get close to a mark.”

He had, once or twice. It would have been foolish not to take advantage of his good looks. Still, he felt awkward about it.

“Is he very old and ugly?” he asked.

Teodora chuckled. “One might get the impression you plan to go beyond what is necessary to complete the task.”

“I do not. But I have my standards.”

“Just close your eyes and think of the Brotherhood, Ezio.” Teodora had finished with the sleeves and started buttoning up the doublet. She tugged its sides together so hard that he had to brace himself. Was he mistaken, or did the damned thing feel even tighter than he remembered? _I hope I’m not getting fat._

After closing the last gilded little button, she handed him the belt, as well as the rapier and dagger that attached to it, and patted his chest.

“There. You look very handsome, my son.”

Ezio turned and considered himself in Teodora’s large and immensely expensive mirror.

Black, gold and white, with genuine Brussels lace at the collar and cuffs, the clothes on him had certainly not come cheap. Teodora had had them made for him the year before, upon needing an escort to a string of masked parties. The doublet was short and tightly fitted, the chausses practically licked the skin, and of course no suit of a young gentleman would have been complete without sword and dagger, or the shoulder cape that still lingered on the bed — or a hat, which Ezio was planning to forgo. It was the height of the Carnevale, and no one was giving anyone points for dressing by the book.

Ezio tilted his head to the side as he studied his reflection in the mirror. His brows knitted at what was rather more than a mere dark shadow on his jaw. Well, perhaps the stubble would lend him the air of someone dedicated to revelry? He ran his hand over his loosely tied brown hair and shook it to toss the shorter part over his temples. As an afterthought, he picked open a number of top buttons on his doublet and tugged on its collar to display a length of swarthy skin, taut with muscle and covered in hair.

Teodora’s eyebrows climbed a fraction. Her eyes met his in the mirror. “Really, Ezio?”

He shrugged, all innocence. “It is a sin to hide what God in His infinite wisdom has created.”

Her mouth quivered. “In that case, why cover any of it?”

He faked astonishment. “ _Luce dei miei occhi!_ Just say the word. This thing is hellishly uncomfortable!”

Her gaze slid over him, from broad shoulders to narrow hips. It lingered a second more than necessary where the tight fit of his chausses left far too little to imagination.

“Uncomfortable, my son? There are more accurate descriptions that spring to mind. But let us not burden our future moments in the confessional with use of such language. Enough to say that, should the mark not give you more than just a look, he has to be entirely blind, _amorino_.”

Comparing him to a chubby little cupid, now? Ezio grinned and checked his cuffs — or rather, the bracers and blades hidden under the thick silk and lace of his sleeves. Teodora handed him a silver half mask, which he attached upon his face.

“ _Vi ringrazio,_ Madonna,” he said and bowed over her hand. “Now I must excuse myself from your lovely company, for there are hearts I need to sting with my bow tonight.”

Upon straightening, he was almost certain he caught Teodora rolling her eyes. But the thought quickly dissipated, for surely the mistress of _La Rosa_ was above such immature expressions of her temper.

o o o

Ezio found his mark among the patrician spectators who had gathered to see the annual staged fight of Venezia’s rivaling factions, this time arranged on the San Polo campo after sunset.

The night was overcast and mild for the season, and bonfires had been lit to illuminate the extravaganza and allow for the audience to go about without falling over each other. Dogs bayed, gulls screeched, street musicians played their fiddles and flutes; whores plied their trade among the crowd, which shouted, laughed, flirted, got drunk and took the cover of night to fuck in dark corners.

Every city and village in Italia had its own Carnevale, but that in Venezia was above all others. Some of its inhabitants wore a mask for months. Many favored the all-covering bauta, with its black hat, long cloak and full white mask to conceal their identity. Fortunately Ezio’s mark was not among those men. He stood near a bonfire, easy to recognize by his lavish samite robe and the fox mask Teodora had described. He was surrounded by bodyguards, retainers and what might have been friends, family, business partners or just sycophants. Women, too, either courtesans or noblewomen; some of them might even have been men. Such perversions were common while the fantastic creations of the Carnevale protected their wearers from being discovered.

Ezio moved through the crowd, ignoring the looks and whispered invitations he attracted.

A bystander left his spot on a merchant’s abandoned trestle table, not too far from the mark. Ezio leaped to stand on it and turned to look back over his shoulder. The warmth of the nearby flames touched his skin, raising sweat despite the time of year.

Finally his mark’s eyes chanced on him. Ezio smiled and nodded, feeling his teeth flash white in his face beneath the silver mask.

The man looked away. Then back.

Ezio turned to observe the match being staged on the campo.

Smoke billowed and the noise of the crowd swelled. Drums were being sounded to announce the fight. Girls and boys danced, dressed as antique creatures of fantasy. The young men of the rivaling houses had been costumed as Romans and barbarians, or that at least was the impression Ezio gathered from their headdresses and other accoutrements. The weapons they brandished were made of wood and padded to inflict minimal damage, but even so, injuries and even deaths would occur, the same as every year. Blood was one of the things that drew the crowd. The promise of corporeal entertainment was another. Food and drink provided free of charge by the Republic... as well as other things.

Horns, now. The fighters shouted insults at each other. Ezio looked over his shoulder again.

Soon the mark raised his head toward him, and seemed to forget what he was saying to his companion.

Grinning, Ezio turned, making sure the man got a good eyeful of what was on offer. Then he tilted his head in the direction of a nearby alley and dropped down from the table. Slowly, making sure his target was watching, he made his way toward the dark recess.

After a last look back, he disappeared behind the corner.

A rank stench of piss told what the backstreet was mainly used for. But after several years in Venezia, Ezio no longer had it in him to even shiver at most of its smells. He waited, and after a while, a familiar fox-masked figure appeared at the corner, dark against torchlight.

“Wait for me here”, the man said to his bodyguards, and stepped into the shadow.

o o o

To Ezio’s credit, his clothes remained entirely unblemished.

To make sure no one followed after the deed, he took the long way around, circling through side alleys before he made his way back toward the San Polo campo. At the clearing, the mock battle was already underway, with a great clamor of padded swords and young men crying for each other’s blood.

Similar spectacles had been arranged by the state in Firenze. The intention was to allow unruly young men to spend energy and work out their differences in a controlled manner. Yet there seemed little control to how the rascals bashed each other in the heat of the fight — but at least this way it offered some entertainment for the crowd, which milled about at the edges of the open space and leaned out of the surrounding windows and balconies.

A lone man in a bauta was standing close to where Ezio leaned against a wall. His manner seemed friendly, if slightly drunk.

“Isn’t it great this year?” the stranger cried after a while over the sound of street musicians, people talking and shouting, the fight, and the crackle of a nearby bonfire.

“It is not bad,” Ezio answered.

Truth be told, he was not paying much attention to the battle. He’d just noticed a redhead in a green dress, going round and round to a saltarella played by street musicians, tipsy from wine and the heat of the fire. Her bosom almost spilled from her bodice, soft and golden in the glow of firelight. Ezio briefly wondered about the face beneath her feathered mask. But in the Carnevale, most never revealed themselves, so did it really matter whether she was pretty?

Ezio had expected his mongrel Venetian to put his new friend off, but the man did not seem to care.

“Perhaps you were not in Venezia last time, my friend? It was a disaster. The bridge they fought on collapsed and twelve men died. This year the Council has spared no expense to ingratiate themselves. They even hired a foreigner to plan and direct the thing. A famous one, from Vinci, they say — a very well-known artist —”

Suddenly Ezio lost his interest in the dancing woman. For the first time, his gaze turned fully on his bauta-wearing would-be companion.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, yes! He’s a genius, they say — a genius — just look at the things they’ve built —”

Ezio looked over the campo. Indeed, great constructs that seemed like strange machines of war were rolling toward each other on the clearing, and the crowd ooh’ed and aah’ed in delight. What the devil moved the things? There must have been cart animals strapped inside, and men who made them walk.

After a moment the towering contraptions came to a halt behind the fighting men, and fireworks started, creating the impression of warfare with their flashing lights and cracks. The audience cheered. There was no question that this year’s spectacle was a success.

Ezio scanned the crowd that surrounded the battlefield. There? No... there, on a scaffold, near the balcony where the head Council stood, no mistake. A stylishly dressed man of great bearing addressed what seemed a group of harried assistants. The plume on Leonardo’s wide-brimmed hat waved as he spoke, and then the men bowed and ran about to do their master’s bidding.

To his new friend’s disappointment, Ezio left his place at the wall.

Working his way through the crowd, he found a spot closer to where the mock fight was being conducted. It was a lousy place to watch the play unfold, but offered a view toward the scaffold, where Leonardo stood alongside some notables of the Senate. He was unmasked, but that was not the only thing that set him apart from the red-robed Veneziano patricians; in his grey cape and simple, blue jerkin, girded at the loins with a single dagger hanging from his belt, he stood out as the odd bird among them.

The moment had in it the taste of premonition. Ezio had always considered Leonardo sweet and gentle of nature, but now, looking at this man who garbed and conducted himself with an almost military austerity, he could imagine his friend gazing down on a true battlefield, where cannons cracked instead of fireworks and men swung swords and halberds of sharpened steel. If what the Mamluk Templar had said was true, Leonardo had written and boasted to the Duke of Milan of knowing how to engineer a war. For the first time it did not seem incomprehensible to Ezio to think Leonardo might have written those words as more than just a ruse.

What, after all, did he know of Leonardo’s true nature? Despite six years of friendship, he had not suspected the... other thing, either.

Eventually, the fight came to an end. The _trombetti_ sounded a great fanfare or horns, young girls threw flowers from atop the war machines, and children released doves in the air as a sign of peace. A herald announced the winners of the battle, and the colors of the victorious factions were flown from rooftops. Only the young belligerents themselves did not seem appeased. Many of them had to be dragged away from each other by force. The surgeons who had erected their stalls at the edges of the campo reaped the harvest of bruises, cuts and broken bones that was the price of the night’s exercise.

Leonardo and his august companions turned to quit the scaffold. Ezio followed, threading through the crowd.

He made it close enough to hear some of what they discussed.

The nobles who had patronized the night’s entertainment almost fell over each other to try and invite its architect to grace their celebrities with his presence. Leonardo seemed polite, but reluctant. Then a very tall Spaniard stepped in and announced in broken Italian that the hero of the night would attend no other festivity than his. A patron, apparently, and an important one, for Leonardo bowed and acquiesced without protest.

Ezio tailed the group to the canal’s edge, where he saw them step into two wide-bellied boats. The first of them accepted the Spaniard and his closest companions, which included Leonardo and his two assistants — and to Ezio’s surprise, two burly men he knew to be bodyguards. He’d never before seen Leonardo hire bravos to protect himself. It appeared that the incident with the Mamluk had shaken him more than Ezio had expected.

The retinue settled on benches beneath canopies, and oarsmen pushed the boats away from the fondamenta. The small procession pulled away into a thin mist that was rising from the still water. Ezio ran along the brick-and-wood pier and jumped into the first free gondola he saw.

“Follow those boats,” he said and pointed toward the receding cortege, easy enough to recognise by its many-colored lanterns that swayed to the rhythm of the boatmen’s oars.

The gondolier tipped his hat and started rowing.


	11. Chapter 11

Music and laughter echoed across the cold, black water of the canals, from lantern-lit boats that glided through the shifting fog the Venetians called _calìgo_.

Upon reaching the _Canalasso_ , the colored lights of the Spaniard’s retinue turned South, past the magnificently bedecked Palazzo Barbarigo. Like stately fireflies, they made their way toward Bacino San Marco and, beyond the Great Canal’s southern bend, one of the gaily lit palaces.

From his gondola, Ezio saw the boats settle at a private pier that led into the grand house. Servants helped the Don and his companions upon the stone foundation, from where they headed inside — Leonardo among the rest, with his host’s arm around his shoulders.

Ezio gestured for the gondolier to pull up at a nearby landing. After paying, he took a flight of stairs to a very narrow _calle_. A wider alley led him to the front of the palace, where masked strangers thronged under the front loggia, drinking, eating and merry-making in the light of torches and braziers. Rich houses made a point of offering free food and entertainment before the Lent, and foreign lords were no exception — if anything, they spent more than native patricians, hoping to win the favor of the locals with boat races, theatrical performances and bull fights.

The guards posted at the front gate cheered at a pair of drunken, bare-breasted whores who danced arm in arm to the alien sound of some ancient Catalan song. In his fine clothes and mask, Ezio did not merit more than a look from them as he calmly entered the house through its open doors.

o o o

“ _Benarrivato_ , signore. Your weapons, if I may?”

A lovely courtesan had appeared from the crowd which littered the shadowed hall. Fitted in what aside from her skirts looked like a guard’s uniform, if tight and open almost to the waist, she performed a graceful little curtsey to Ezio.

Despite her polite choice of words, the assassin knew that the request had not been intended as a question. After just a moment’s hesitation, he removed his rapier and dagger and handed them over, hoping he hadn’t just cost Teodora a perfectly serviceable set of expensive items. She took possession of his weapons and her eyes traveled his length. A servant would never have dared to look so boldly at a nobleman, but she was no housemaid. He saw her take note of the fashionable fit of his clothes, and the impropriety of his lack of headwear.

“ _Grazie mille,_ signore,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Is there a specific sort of aid you would wish to provide for the ease of my troubled existence, _dolcezza?_ ”

Her dark eyes met his. “Ease, signore? It is much more likely I will make your life _harder_.”

Ezio flashed a grin.

He was by no means a stranger to risqué parties, not after bodyguarding Teodora through Venezia’s vices for the past year or so, but alas — that was not why he was here. “I stand in no doubt of your abilities to rob a man of his wit, _bella mia_ ,” he sighed. “Yet I find I must pay my respects to the master of the house. Would you be so kind as to point me in his direction?”

“You shall find him upstairs, signore. Just seek out the guards, and if you know Don Alonso, they will let you through.”

He thanked her, salvaged some wine from a servant, and proceeded to wander deeper into the house.

Ezio had been afraid of attracting suspicion, but any sort of doubt did not seem high on the list of things his appearance was likely to arouse. The party was well on its way toward an orgy, and the more skin was bared, the more closely identities remained in cover. Some of the costumes barely covered their wearers’ nakedness. People shared food, wine and laughter, and their bodies — but rarely their names, and no one approached Ezio to demand for his, so much as other things.

Pretending to be part of a group of drunken noblemen, Ezio made his way to the Spaniard's heavily guarded private chambers, where the Don’s more notable guests were entertained. After wandering down a string of dim, thickly scented rooms, past people in varying states of undress and drunkenness, he heard the sound of a lute and followed it through an open door into the backmost chamber. There great fireplaces and hosts of candles cast soft spots of light on the masked strangers who were gathered in the wide space. In the middle of them, the Spaniard and his closest associates sat on low Oriental couches strewn with cushions and silks. There was Don Alonso himself, with a courtesan on his knee, one hand on her bare breast, the other brandishing a fine Murano glass wine pitcher. Next to him the Templar councilor, Carlo Grimaldi, appeared long-suffering in his red patrician robes, much less undone than his Spanish companion — taking care of his foreign contacts, perhaps, and thus reduced to attending such an occasion despite his reputation as an abstemious, joyless schemer. Two other noblemen Ezio did not yet know by name were happy to share Don Alonso’s wine and whores, their capes and tunics discarded and their doublets unbuttoned. And on yet another seat, Leonardo played the instrument Ezio had heard.

Like the others, the maestro had been relieved of his weapons and cloak, but he was still neatly clothed, to the extent of still wearing his wide-brimmed, plumed hat. Neither had he any naked whores on top of him. Unnoticed, Ezio settled back to observe from the shadows of the room, wary of the many guards who kept watch.

The ballad Leonardo was playing held a melancholy Iberian or Moorish sound to it, embellished with clever motifs that sounded different from anything taught by the current masters. Did the maestro hate performing to the crowd like some common minstrel? It was hard to tell, with that forever cheerful face. Out of all the men Ezio knew, Leonardo most of all looked like he had no secrets — yet the assassin remembered all too well the seven-year-old eyewitness record he’d read on his visit to the court archives in Firenze. There it had been, the truth to the gondolier’s gossip, and testimony that the kind, chaste maestro da Vinci did indeed possess the ability to sin.

Ezio took another cup of wine from a tray held by a passing servant and started drinking in earnest.

It was almost impossible to imagine, yet his cursed mind kept trying. Again he envisioned Leonardo in some seedy brothel in the back alleys of Firenze, no older than he was now, drunk and disheveled, participating in something Ezio had long thought him not only indifferent to, but incapable of. No one hired a whore between three men to be civilized. Ezio knew that having an audience made men crueler in their lust, and what cheap backstreet prostitutes were like — their coarse language, their rough laughter. Would it all have shocked Leonardo? Or had he reveled in it, and only given up such things in fear of losing face?

The ballad ended with a string of arpeggios and chords. Leonardo smiled at his cheering audience. Sitting straight, he handed the instrument back to the entertainer who owned it.

“Magnificent, Ser da Vinci,” Don Alonso boomed in his deeply accented Dante’s Italian, loud enough to reach the whole room and suppress all other attempts at discussion. “The rumors were true. You are a master musician, as well.”

Leonardo performed a small bow, such as he could while sitting. Carlo Grimaldi gave an oily smile over the brim of his wine goblet. Ezio’s fingers twitched, longing to curl around the councilor’s throat. _Are they all Templars?_ Not impossible, in the least. The Order had become far-reaching and numerous, and unlike Altaïr’s Brotherhood, its members kept tight counsel with each other.

“But enough with ditties,” Don Alonso continued. “This is a night of celebration, no? Rules of hospitality need to be obeyed. Maestro, I would not have you leave my house without having enjoyed everything on offer. You must choose a woman.”

Ezio stiffened. How many times had he as a younger man tried to talk his friend into sharing a girl or two at a brothel? Leonardo had always stammered and blushed when refusing. But this time he did neither. “Messere, your generosity is overflowing, but I fear I must decline,” he said with a laugh, reaching for wine from a retainer. “It is my belief that abstaining from such distractions increases a man’s productivity in more important matters.”

For a second, the Spaniard and several other people stared at Leonardo as if they could not believe their ears. Ezio remembered his own similar reaction from years ago. Only Messere Grimaldi nodded sagely, and had Ezio ever needed proof that Leonardo’s theory about carnal abstinence was sheer madness, he received it now in the filthy Templar pawn's approval.

“Distractions?” Don Alonso roared, echoing Ezio’s own thoughts. “How can a man be distracted by eating or shitting or pissing? Like fucking, these are all base needs that must be met or grow ill and perish! Neither of which should I have an esteemed guest do under my roof. You there!” The Spaniard gestured to one of the courtesans who lingered nearby. “See to maestro da Vinci’s well-being. If he has not plowed you come morning, I shall have you thrashed.”

The woman Don Alonso had indicated curtseyed, hurried over and promptly deposited herself on Leonardo’s lap. Her blouse hung open, her arms were bare and her skirts in disarray, and her bleached braids swayed half-loose around her head. But no courtesan in Don Alonso’s palazzo was ugly, and neither was she, with her plump arms and tits and rosy cheeks. Ezio felt a strange coldness in his gut as she wrapped her arms around Leonardo’s neck. For just the shortest moment Leonardo frowned. Then he glanced at Don Alonso and bent his neck in acquiescence, keeping further emotion to himself.

“Well? Is her touch not preferable to that of clay and marble?” Don Alonso waved his hand. “Kiss him, slut, and let us bury odd notions of the benefit of self-denial! Music! Laughter! Let no Italian say that my countrymen do not know how to celebrate.”

The musicians obeyed, as did the audience, as it burst into hilarity when the bleached bawd followed command and planted her mouth on the maestro’s own.

Someone groaned. When a nearby guard threw Ezio a suspicious glance, the assassin realized he’d made the sound himself. Sweating, he clenched his hands, to keep himself from triggering his hidden blades out of sheer rage. _I should take the opportunity to kill them all!_ But they were too many, with a dozen of soldiers in this room alone, and the risk of hurting innocents was too high.

_Damn it all to hell!_

Leonardo did not shrink back or push the courtesan away. Of course not. He was not an idiot. Ezio was starting to understand that the Leonardo da Vinci he knew was not the man who associated with warlords and cardinals. Knowing that his version was perhaps closer to Leonardo’s true self did not make it any easier to watch him return the whore’s affections.

At last the woman extricated herself from Leonardo’s face.

“Well? Is Maestro da Vinci truly a master of all things?” demanded Don Alonso, who kept absently fondling his own slattern.

“He holds back, messere. But fear not, I will find the extent of his skills.” The whore’s hand sneaked under Leonardo’s tunic. Don Alonso laughed.

Ezio wondered why he’d really come. To give the final, lethal blow to his manhood? The half a dozen of explanations he'd conceived for his strange behavior in the Mamluk’s palace now all seemed foolish, one more than the other. There was nothing uncertain about what he’d done, or its motivations — or the nauseating jealousy that twisted his gut.

He turned and left, knowing that if he didn’t, something terrible would happen.

He wandered through the palazzo like a man through someone else’s dreams. In one room, an old, withered creature in a queen’s dress and heavy maquillage was telling a story about a girl who went into the woods and was eaten by a wolf. In another, people in fantastic antique costumes danced to a gailliard played by naked courtesans. Ezio continued to drink more heavily than he knew to be wise in a Templar den.

He did not realize he was looking for something before he found it.

In a more peaceful corner of the house, less boisterous guests were playing cards. Ezio joined the audience to take a closer look. The game was _bassette_ , dealt for five with fine hand-painted French four-suit decks. A favorite of gamblers — Ezio did not care to remember how many soldi he’d lost to Antonio while learning its tricks.

A striking _señora_  was winning heavily at a table otherwise occupied by male participants. Whether she was a noble or a commoner cleverly feigning one, Ezio could not tell. For several minutes, he could not even tell that she was cheating. He was too distracted staring at her — or rather, certain parts of her. The black velvet kirtle she wore was sewn in a peculiar foreign style, wide and long of sleeve, but low-waisted and flat over brutally laced stays, so tight that they almost forced her ample bosom out of her low-cut bodice. A long chain of pearls circled her neck and disappeared between those magnificent, white mounds. Every time she leaned forward to place a bet, the whole room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of whether or not her battlements would bounce free — an effect she’d undoubtedly counted much on, since there was nothing particularly novel to the way she cheated, at least not to Ezio, who had seen it done by the best.

Eventually, the _señora_ deigned to acknowledge his interest. Instead of the scowl of cold disapproval he’d expected, she just returned his stare from behind her black-and-gold half mask. Her slanted eyes assessed his appearance without giving away any thoughts on what she saw. Then she turned back to relieve her opponents of what remained of their purses.

After a few minutes, she folded her cards, collected her winnings, and excused herself. The audience parted to let her through. A fan in one hand, a fat velvet purse in the other, she made for a door. No beckoning finger or a backward look betrayed her interest, but if the sway under her heavy black skirts wasn’t an invitation, Ezio was willing to admit he didn’t know anything about women, after all. Leaving his wine cup on a side table, he slid after her, feeling just slightly unsteady on his feet.

Without a word, she took a flight of stairs, past guards who stepped aside to let them pass, and walked through a door in the third floor hall. Ezio followed her into an empty camera lighted by a few candles. There she at last turned to look at him, and opened her blood-red mouth to speak.

Not interested in conversation, Ezio closed the door and went to kiss her.

She shoved him away and slapped him, hard. _“Ladrón!”_ she hissed.

Fazed for a moment, Ezio straightened his silver mask. His manhood throbbed in rhythm to his stinging face. “Madonna,” he growled. He could tell that there was a stiletto beneath her wide sleeve, and a sharp, long steel pin in her braided hair, both of which she undoubtedly knew how to use. But she didn’t — and this, too, was a game he'd played before.

She fought him as he picked her up and carried her to an alcove deeper in the room. He tossed her behind the curtain and climbed after her on the bed, thinking of the black velvet of her dress against her pale skin, and the tight lacing that so mercilessly constricted her flesh. She yelped and tried to crawl away, but he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her back, causing many-layered skirts to catch against the bed cover and reveal silk slippers and embroidered stockings. Ezio was not surprised to see another dagger strapped to her leg. She kicked and slapped him and spat obscenities in her native tongue as he ran a hand up her warm, round thigh.

Then her struggling ended with a gasp when he found what he was looking for.

Eyes wide, she tensed against her stays. He mouthed the heaving weight of her breasts, mind filled with the scent of her perfume and the grip of her cunt around his fingers. Taking her into that wordless place took little effort at all. She muttered and trembled, most of the fight suddenly taken out of her, as if being caressed even in such a crude manner was not what she’d expected.

What had she wanted of him if not pleasure? Punishment? She’d chosen him for his looks, not his reputation — and he did look like someone who could subdue a woman. Suddenly Ezio’s own gratification felt less important. He pushed up the rest of her skirts and started downward. In the dark, he heard her whisper something that sounded like a prayer.

After, he watched her smooth down her dress in front of a mirror and pin her hair into a semblance of their earlier fashionable arrangement.

She turned to watch him where he stood buttoning and lacing his own clothes, a thoughtful look on what he could see of her face. He suspected she might have asked something, had she been familiar enough with the local vernacular to do so — or known that he could manage a conversation in her own language. Instead, she just colored a little. Remembering something from a while ago? Well, he had spared no effort to make an impression. And more importantly, he no longer felt like murdering everyone in the house.

When the _señora_ started to approach, Ezio stiffened in alarm. Hopefully she wasn’t going to get all teary and clingy? It was hard, sometimes, to be a man of such talents, and so irresistible... flourishing his shoulder cape, he bowed, and reached for her hand to kiss it. “Madonna —” he started, with what he hoped was a suitably apologetic tone.

Jerking up her chin, she took his hand and pressed something in it. “I’m sure that’s more than you’ve seen in a month, boy,” she said in lowly Aragonese, a tongue she undoubtedly expected him not to understand. “You’ve earned it. Although, for all I care, you should be paying _me_ , for providing variety from having your arse ploughed by those hairy beasts.”

Speechless, Ezio stared at a silver coin on his palm.

She huffed. “Oh, fine,” she said, picked another, smaller coin from her purse, and placed it on top of the other. “But that’s all you’re getting. I’m just a working woman, not the Queen of Castile.” She snapped her fan open, her black skirts swirled, and then she was walking away, not a backward look spared over her regal shoulder. “Venecia! Even the damn whores think they’re princes and princesses,” he heard her mutter in refined Castilian as she went through the door.

It took a while for Ezio to regain his ability to move.

The insult was so great that it no longer even registered as such. He tossed the coins in his hand to estimate their weight, then examined the larger one between thumb and forefinger in the weak candlelight. It was a new silver _maravedí_ of Toledo mint, with the royal couple on one side and their arms on the other. Not bad, not bad at all, for less than an hour’s worth of work. Ezio thumbed the money into his purse. Maybe if he ever tired of his current profession, he could take on a career of a different kind?

However, there was a downside. When he went to the washing stand, even the dim reflection he could see in the mirror confirmed his fears. His lower lip was split from being bitten, the side of his face red from being smacked, and angry marks had emerged down his neck where the Spanish wildcat had scratched him in her arousal. _I think_ I’m _in need of a bodyguard_. Tidying up and splashing cold water on his face and hands did little to restore decency to his appearance.

He went back to sit in the alcove, then fell to lie on the bed cover and stared into darkness behind the half closed curtains.

At least he was still a man. No doubt about it. Maybe drowning himself in women would teach his unruly imagination to forget certain wayward new ideas? The fact that pleasuring a beautiful _donna_ had left him feeling strangely like having worked suggested that there was something a bit lacking to that plan, but at least it was simple and easy enough to accomplish. He'd just... continue doing more of what he’d always done. Right? No one would ever need to know otherwise.

_But you will know. And you've seen how hard it is to lie to Leonardo._

Ezio groaned. For once, he envied Leonardo for his cleverness. The cursed man would surely see a way out of even this mess. All Ezio himself could think of was how to make things worse. He felt a headache coming on from drinking too much too fast, earlier, and closed his eyes, to rest them for a while before leaving.

After who knew how long, he woke up to a loud crackling and explosions. Cold and disoriented, he stirred, and blinked to focus his eyes in the shadow.

It did not take him long to realize that he was no longer alone in the room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely [EasternViolet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EasternViolet/pseuds/EasternViolet) helped me by beta reading this chapter. Thank you, dear!

The room was colder than before, with the scent of canal water and winter dampness in the air. Fireworks were being set off upon the _Canalasso_. In their glow, Ezio saw a tall man stand at an open window not far from him, dressed in a grey doublet and chausses, a blue military-style jerkin, and a familiar plumed hat.

He stifled a curse and pulled back into the darkness of the alcove. The loud crackling from outside drowned out the bed’s creaking under his weight.

 _What the hell is_ he _doing here?!_

The obvious answer to that question was also the most usual. Leonardo was working. From between the curtains, Ezio could see him writing in a little notebook which he held close to his face to compensate for the scant amount of light. The door was closed, and no bodyguards, assistants or lusty fair-haired bawds were anywhere to be seen. Knowing Leonardo, his industrious solitude was unlikely to be accidental. Not long ago, Ezio would have looked upon it as an opportunity to pull a little prank at his friend's expense, but now he sat silent in the dark and weighed his options.

 _I doubt the man would notice a grenade going off next to him. Maybe I should just try to sneak away?_ But no. He didn’t dare take the risk. While patience hadn’t always been his strongest suit, now he resolved himself to waiting until Leonardo decided to leave.

The candles guttered and smoked, a couple had already been smothered by the draft. Leonardo muttered something to himself and scratched his temple with the pen he’d not long ago dipped in the inkhorn that hung from his belt. Ezio saw him move closer to the window and peer outside. The plumed hat swiveled left and right. Carefully Leonardo placed the notebook to dry on the sill, stoppered his inkpot, and stored his quill back in a portable penner. 

What the devil was the man doing? Not paying attention to the spectacle, that much was clear. Veneziano fireworks makers were capable of creating true wonders, such that surely not even Marco Polo had witnessed the like in faraway Chataio. But Leonardo already knew the secrets of gunpowder and its uses.

Seconds later, Ezio shot out of the alcove.

“No! Don’t jump!” he cried.

Maestro da Vinci looked over his shoulder from where he sat perched halfway on the third-floor windowsill. “Ezio..?” he said in shock, and with a startled sound, started to lose purchase in the direction of the cold, filthy canal.

Ezio did not notice moving before he’d already pulled Leonardo back inside.

They tumbled into the room like two drunkards. Ezio’s boots slipped on the polished Istrian limestone, the world spun, and then pain at the back of his head blinded him for a good five seconds.

When he was able to focus, he found himself stretched out on his back on the floor. Leonardo lay sprawled on top of him, silent and still for once, with the exception of his labored breathing. Outside, the fireworks were starting to die away, with a few last hisses and crackles and scintillating sparkles.

 _“Figlio di puttana,”_ Ezio moaned to no one in particular. He rubbed the sore spot that was forming on his skull. “Was the party really _that_ bad?”

As if suddenly becoming capable of movement again, Leonardo pushed up to sit across Ezio’s hips. He’d lost his hat, and his carefully combed hair tumbled freely around his unmasked face. Dark ink smeared the skin at his left temple, but other than that, he was as neatly groomed and handsome as ever.

“What — how — Ezio! You’re alive!” He held the assassin’s jaw with more force than necessary and kissed him on both cheeks, awkward as it was due to their position, and the silver half mask that covered the other man’s face.

“Yes... I’m alive... ow!” Ezio winced as his abused head was pressed against the floor. The brush of Leonardo’s beard against his own stubble disconcerted him, to say the least.

“Are you hurt? What is — why did you — wait.” Leonardo frowned. “Did you think I was going to _jump?_ ”

“Well, what the hell was that, then?”

Leonardo continued to stare for a moment. Then he covered his eyes with his hand and chortled. “Ezio, _caro amico!”_

“Oh, so it is funny, eh..?”

Laughter made Leonardo shake all over.

“What is it?” Ezio muttered, trying to ignore his growing awareness of their proximity, and where exactly they were touching. Leonardo was surprisingly heavy.

“You... really thought... that I intended to throw myself out of the window?”

“Are you trying to say that you weren’t?”

“Oh, God.” Leonardo dissolved into more undignified giggles.

Ezio resisted a growing urge to pull Leonardo down on top of him again and make him stop laughing.

What the hell was wrong with him? He’d just bedded a beautiful _donna,_ for God’s sake. He tried to think of something thoroughly unappealing. That one time he’d seen his Uncle practice ripostes in the Villa courtyard, falling-on-his-face drunk and stark naked... bellowing like a crazy bull, proud and hairy and covered in pigshit. But the mental image barely prevented him from embarrassing himself.

Thank the angels and all that was good, Leonardo finally rolled off of him and continued to giggle on the floor. “ _Dio mio!_ Ezio, I just wanted to see the reflections from the glass! I have this theory, you see — about the way light interacts with matter —”

Ezio stared at the ceiling and tried to will down the half-hard _pezzo di merda_ between his legs. _Goddamn animal. Count yourself lucky he hasn’t noticed and whacked you around the ears again._ Clumsier than usual, he rolled up to sit and from there, to his feet.

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” he growled. “You almost fell! Can you even swim? Your life is too important to risk!”

Still wheezing with hilarity, Leonardo accepted Ezio's offered hand and stood, a broad grin on his face. “Oh, I agree. I assure you that I intend to exist on this Earth for as long as I can. _”_ He pulled Ezio into a half-embrace and then retreated to wipe tears from his eyes. “Which _you,_ dear brother, very nearly robbed me of by trying to give me a stroke! _Santo cielo._ Where did you come from? Where have you been? And what in God’s name are you doing here?”

 _Why isn’t he mad at me?_ Ezio had disappeared without a word and sent no letters to inform anyone in Venezia of his continued existence. _Damn you, Leonardo. Can’t you for once treat me the way I deserve?_

He gestured toward the alcove as if it had offended his mother. “I was hiding in there. I dozed off.”

“Yes? What for?”

Ezio’s eyes felt shifty. “I was tired.”

“And why were you in the room?”

“Well...”

There was no good way to explain his presence in the palace. But it seemed that he didn’t have to. Leonardo chose that moment to finally really look at him — at the tell-tale bruising, scratches and split lip, the slutty fit of his clothes, and how his doublet was still hanging half open over his chest. Even a simpleton would have understood what he’d been up to. Leonardo’s eyes widened, and to his chagrin, Ezio felt himself turn red like a damned schoolboy caught fondling himself. Thank God for the mask and the lack of light.

The maestro stepped back and brushed the dust from his clothes. His voice, when he spoke, sounded almost _too_ cheerful. “Oh, _ma certo!_ Hire Venezia’s most beautiful courtesans, and naturally Ezio Auditore can also be found there...”

Ezio ground his teeth. _Does everybody now think me a whore?_ The thought that Leonardo found his morals lacking grated on him in a way that the beautiful Spaniard’s mistake never had. “Leonardo, I saw you having words with Don Alonso and Carlo Grimaldi. Do you not know that you’re in a Templar lair? You could be in mortal peril!”

Leonardo looked up, startled, then lowered his voice. “ _Mi dispiace._ I spoke unwisely. Of course you would not be here for frivolous reasons. Do not worry on my account, _scimmietta._ Can I help you? I have Don Alonso’s ear. If you need me to, I can —”

Ezio waved the offer away, now embarrassed to have been afforded the dignity he did not deserve. “Just concentrate on keeping yourself safe. Where are those useless bodyguards of yours? And why are you up here? Aren’t your Templar friends going to grow suspicious?”

“Well, they...” Leonardo rubbed the back of his neck. “To tell you the truth... I’m hiding."

Ezio’s hackles rose. “From whom? Did somebody threaten you? I will kill that Spanish son of a —”

“No, no! God forbid. No need to kill anybody. Don Alonso is under the impression that I’m occupied with a certain... lady of the night who was ordered to make me comfortable. He threatened harm on her, should she not succeed in raising my... err... interest.”

“And what has become of this lovely vision?”

“We came to a mutual understanding. She’s entertaining my assistants.” Leonardo seemed proud of his solution to the problem.

“I see. Clever.”

“Well... it is only fair that others should enjoy hospitality I cannot.”

There it was again — the old conundrum. “So, you still do not care for the... act of procreation, do you?” Ezio had meant to speak in jest, but what emerged from his mouth did not sound much like humor.

“I do not. Why should that have changed?”

 _He can barely even look at me. And the tense tone of his voice... Has it always been like this? Was I blind before? Or do I now imagine dishonesty where none exists?_ The uncertainty lingered, and Ezio just shrugged in reply.

The silence between them stretched, laden and ungainly. Through the thick stone walls and heavy door, Ezio could hear only a distant murmur of the voices and music elsewhere in the palazzo. A gust of wind rattled the open window, the candles fluttered, and a gondolier’s singing reached them from where he rowed his boat down the canal.

When Leonardo spoke, he sounded almost hesitant. “Ezio, you’ve seemed... different, lately. Is there something I should know about?”

Was it an attempt to talk about the incident in the Mamluk’s palace? Ezio went rigid.

“No,” he said.

Leonardo gave him a disappointed look and sighed. “Very well, I will not insist. But can you at least tell me where you've been, all these months? I truly feared something ill had happened, _scimmietta._ Although I suppose that, in the event of managing to defeat you, your enemies would make so much of it that the whole of Italy would know.”

“I spent the winter in Monteriggioni. I returned a week ago.” No need to tell how close he’d come to death on account of his festering wound.

He knew he sounded brusque and prickly. However, Leonardo just nodded, as infuriatingly good-natured as ever, at least on the outside. “Very well. You must have had your reasons. For what it’s worth, I’m glad we ran into each other. I did not want to leave Venezia without seeing you. I suppose I might have written your Uncle and trusted the letter to reach you at some point, but expressing such sentiments in writing rarely does them justice.”

Ezio's mind ground to a halt. “What?”

“Well, it is much better to say goodbye to a friend in person, don’t you think?”

Ezio took the few steps that separated him from Leonardo and turned the man by his shoulders to look at him.

“You’re leaving _?_ What the _diavolo_ for?”

Leonardo blinked in surprise. “You didn’t know? I’m sure I told Teodora. Il Duce has invited me to stay with him and his family in Milano.”

“Milano? But — the Council will not let you go! The Sforzas are their enemy.”

“Of course they will let me go. It is not nearly as difficult to get out of Venezia as it is to get in. You should know that, after having done so many times without trouble. I doubt I will even need to rescue a beautiful _duchessa_ to convince the Council of Ten to grant me passage.”

Ezio was not amused. “What about our work here? Have you forgotten what we’re trying to accomplish? The Brotherhood needs you, Leonardo!”

“I am aware of that, Ezio. And I’m not turning my back on them. Not with this.”

 _He’s keeping something from me._ The thought struck Ezio like a knife. He’d almost gotten used to allies not being fully honest with him — Uncle Mario, and Paola, and even Teodora — the closed expressions, the terse explanations, being told time and again to trust and not to question, as if he hadn’t proved himself over and over. But surely not Leonardo?

“ _I_ cannot do this without you!” The growling voice did not mask how pathetic the words sounded.

Leonardo frowned, slightly baffled. “Now you’re just being silly. Of course you can do it without me. You’ve done fine without me for months.”

“That’s different! I was not at war at my Uncle’s Villa! What if my blades break, or —”

It was Leonardo’s turn to hold him by the shoulders. “Be honest, Ezio. You think your leaving different only because it was _you_ who did it. Do I not have right to choose the same?” He shook his head at Ezio’s scowl, so furious one could even see it through the mask. “And like I said, it will be months before I can go. Plenty of time for you to come and visit. Speaking of which, I have something I must show you. I managed to build the tiny _arma da fuoco._ It was quite the challenge. Such a devious little weapon, and small enough to be fitted in one of your bracers. And I have certain other things I need to give you, _ragazzo_ — contacts, and — oh, the Codex page! Should you chance upon new ones, you can send them to me in Milano by a courier. I have no doubt your Uncle knows some who might be trustworthy —”

Why had he thought it so complicated? It was the simplest thing in the world, grabbing the lapel of Leonardo’s jerkin and pulling him down.

_Oh. So this is how it felt like._

Leonardo made a throaty sound against his lips and went very still.

Ezio’s mind reeled with sensations barely familiar from before. It was not his most masterful kiss ever, but it was a good deal better than trying to suffocate Leonardo with his mouth, like the first time, when he’d had no clue what he was doing and why.

But Leonardo did not return the gesture. His bearded mouth remained unmoving and slightly parted under Ezio’s own. After a moment, Ezio felt himself being gently pushed away, not unlike an over-excited child. He tried to lean back into the touch, but Leonardo was as surprisingly strong as ever.

“What are you doing?”

“You have to ask?” Ezio’s voice so hoarse he barely recognized it. “I’m trying to make love to you.”

He saw Leonardo’s eyes widen, as if the words carried more truth to him than actions. And there it was, for a moment — what Ezio had seen in Leonardo’s drawings. But the expression disappeared almost too soon to be certain.

“Why? I do not understand,” Leonardo said, very quiet and serious.

 _And here I thought you the clever one._ “Isn’t this what you want? Don’t you see, Leonardo? I owe you everything.”

“Wait. Ezio, are you offering this... so that I will stay?”

“ _Sì._ No..! Of course not, but —”

By the time he realized his mistake, Leonardo was already retreating.

“ _Dio mio!_ I knew it. I knew you saw the drawings,” he muttered as if to himself and paced aimlessly, hand on his mouth. “I _knew_ that was why you, in the Egyptian’s palace... despite saying that you didn’t... Mother of God. It all makes sense now. How could I be so _stupid?_ ”

Even in the half-darkness, Ezio could see that Leonardo had turned very pale.

“I should have burned them,” Leonardo whispered. “I cannot believe that I allowed this to happen!”

Ezio finally found his tongue. “What are you talking about?” He stepped forward. But Leonardo raised his hands and shook his head, a look of horror on his face.

“No! Ezio, you must stop this foolishness at once. I do not know what you have heard of me or what you think you saw, but please... if you have any love for me, put such things out of your mind! It is true that I once hoped for something I shouldn't have, but I would never take advantage of your mistaken sense of obligation! Whatever you think you owe me, that debt has been paid many times over. Let us not speak of this again. I will always remain your faithful friend, and help you in any way I can, but I will not — I _cannot_ —”

“Mistaken sense of... what? Leonardo —”

But the man wasn’t even listening. “I cannot bear to imagine what Madonna Maria would think of me,” he choked, looking very much like he might either faint or throw up.

 _My mother? Why would she think anything of any of this?_ “Leonardo! You’re not making sense! I’m trying to —”

“Please. I beg you to forgive me. For everything.” Leonardo started stumbling toward the door.

Ezio’s temper heated. It was easier than losing his mind.

“Stop right there! I’m not finished!”

Out of what must have been sheer surprise, Leonardo halted halfway through the _camera_ and waited. But Ezio had not the faintest idea what to say.

A knock from the door startled them both.

They spun toward the entrance in time to see it open and Leonardo’s assistants step inside. From the rest of the house, light and noise entered in their wake, dispersing the illusion of privacy that had made Ezio forget where they were and why. _God damn those sycophants and their ill timing!_ At seeing their master, the men cried out and scurried forward in a shuffle of robes and leather-soled shoes. Ezio could tell that they hadn’t noticed him, yet. Out of instinct he backed further away from their field of vision.

“This is — how — you’re d-done?” Leonardo stammered to his helpers. They bowed, muttering their gratitude and slipping each other glances, obviously perplexed. Their master _never_ stammered.

Then the bravos barged in like two misplaced dancing bears and suddenly there were far too many people in the room. Leonardo looked from one man to the other, and Ezio could almost sense his brain trying to navigate the situation in the most polite manner.

As an assassin, he had a different approach.

“Ezio — please excuse us —” Leonardo turned to address him.

The astonishment on the maestro’s face reflected that of many others before. All it lacked was the superstitious fear those less endowed in intelligence tended to express when someone just vanished in thin air.

“Should we leave now, maestro?” one of the assistants asked, obviously worried about his employer’s unusual lack of grace (and perhaps also the fact that he was addressing no one in particular). “You have an early appointment tomorrow.”

“I do?” Leonardo ran his fingers through his hair, still pale and distracted. Suddenly he turned to pace toward the open window. Ezio lost sight of him, but the assistants’ startled looks made his guts churn.

“What are you looking for, maestro? Please do not fall from the window!”

Behind the assistants, the bravos looked at each other in a manner that made Ezio want to reshape their faces. Well, reshape them again... as it seemed that their ugly mugs had been broken for them once or twice already.

“ _Sangue di Giuda!_ ” he heard Leonardo mutter. Apparently it did not occur to him that Ezio was still inside. “I hate it when he does that!”

“Maestro, who are you speaking of? Was someone here?”

“No,” Leonardo sighed, and reappeared in the sphere of candlelight and Ezio’s line of sight. “Where’s my hat? Ah. _Andiamo._ I need to get home and think. Or at least try, as the world seems to have deserted all rules of logic, all of a sudden.” The last was muttered so low that only Ezio could perceive it.

“ _Sì_ , maestro. You there! Run along and tell the servants to make ready our belongings!”

The thug bowed and did as he was told. It did not take too long for the others to follow.

o o o

Ezio waited until he could no longer hear footsteps, and then came out of hiding from behind the cupboard, deep in the shadows that the few flickering tapers could not disperse.

 _“Merda per merda...”_ For a moment he just walked about, wringing his hair.

He couldn’t leave yet. Not if he wanted to give Leonardo and his retinue time to quit the place before him. And truth be told, he didn’t trust himself not to pick a fight and beat up the first _cazzo_ who so much as looked at him wrong.

However, by staying, he was in danger of hanging himself from the bed curtains or banging his thick skull against a wall until one of them broke.

Just to do neither, he went to close the window. The night was getting late. Along the dark canal, party-goers were already on their way home. A drizzly rain had started, beating smoke from the fires that still burned beside waterfront palazzos and fontegos. Ezio stared at them through the bubbly window panes until his unusual self-harming urges relented. They left behind a weariness that made him sag against the window frame.

On the floor, near his feet, lay a small notebook.

He picked it up. It was no bigger than a deck of cards, bound in cheap leather, worn from being carried everywhere and handled dozens of times. Nothing hinted at its value — yet Ezio knew that he held in his hand thoughts that in their wildness and ingenuity far exceeded anything that anyone had before imagined.

He also knew that losing the thing would distress Leonardo greatly. He tucked the notebook inside his doublet.

A few minutes later the room appeared as if no one had even entered it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Go here](http://quovadisblog.com/2010/01/25/guest-post-leonardos-notebook/) to see an example of Leonardo's notebooks.
> 
> I know Rosa is supposed to be Ezio's love interest, especially based on the books (which I haven't read). I have a different headcanon.

The third time Ezio’s mind drifted, Antonio finally lost his temper.

“Fine! If my words are of so little interest to you, I will keep them to myself!” The leader of Venezia’s _Gilda dei Ladri_ took his hat and cloak from a chair and stormed toward the door. But before he could reach it, it opened, and a slight figure in a housemaid’s dress and mantle walked in. It took a moment for Ezio to realize it was Rosa. He wasn’t used to seeing her in a skirt. By then, the two thieves had already nimbly sidestepped each other.

“ _Piccola!”_ Antonio kissed his protegee on the cheeks. “Have that fool to yourself. His head is so far in the clouds, not even the Frari reaches as high!”

“Eh?” Rosa looked quizzically at Ezio, who sprawled deeper in his chair, grateful for the hood that hid most of his face.

Seconds later, the door swung on its hinges after Antonio.

For a moment, Rosa did not move. Her feminine appearance almost prompted Ezio to get up and bow. But he knew that the gesture would have either made her curse or laugh. He muttered a greeting, trying to look normal. Going by Rosa’s expression, it wasn't a success.

Despite the fairness of the morning, the only light that illuminated Antonio’s comfortable room speared in from between half-closed shutters. Being spied on was not a non-existent threat in the cramped Greek quarter where the master thief had established his vagrant base. As always, it was just a matter of time before someone realized that the quick-eyed, plain men who came and went from the old barbershop weren’t barbers. Eventually the guard would come — only to find the house deserted, with rats and homeless squatters already taking it over.

Rosa cocked her hip and smiled slyly.

“ _Buongiorno, amore._ Shouldn’t well-behaved assassins be sleeping so early in the day? What are you doing here?”

Ezio shrugged. “Pissing off Antonio, it seems.”

“What did you do?”

“Denied him the attention he thought he deserved.”

Rosa snickered. Her come-hither pose was gone as fast as it had been assumed. “ _Il capo_ loves the sound of his own voice. Fortunately he often says things worth hearing.”

“Not the first time he lost his calm with me.” Over the time Ezio had known Antonio de Magianis, he’d started to understand that aside from the man’s lowly birth, there was another reason for his failure to rise by honest means in this city full of opportunity and self-made men — namely, his lack of patience.

“Sometimes I wonder if that is just his way of showing that he cares.” Rosa pulled off her coif and shook out her short hair. “I have to change into something more comfortable. Stay where you are, I want to talk to you.”

“Can I come and watch?” The old banter slipped from Ezio’s mouth without much thinking, half-hearted as it felt.

“Ha! _Quando il cazzo fa l’unghia, assassino.”_ Shrugging off her mantle on the way, Rosa walked across the room and disappeared through a tiny door, leaving Ezio in unwelcome solitude.

He did everything in his power to resist temptation. He stared at the dust swirling in the sunlight. He listened to the people speaking in Greek in the narrow alley beneath the window. He watched a brave mouse scurry to pick up bread crumbs spilled from where he'd broken his fast with Antonio. He even considered taking his stiletto and sticking it through his own palm.

Eventually he broke down and took the notebook from inside his jerkin, like he’d done God knew how many times over the past few days.

By now, the thing burned in his hand like something stolen. Leafing through, it felt like stealing a forbidden peek into Leonardo’s incomprehensible and wonderfully odd mind. Neat mirror script surrounded delicate diagrams of technical apparati and flowing water, plants and geometrics. It had once surprised Ezio to learn that Leonardo didn’t know others couldn’t read his writing. It was not a cipher — due to his left-handedness, the maestro simply found it easier to write that way. After having had over thirty years to observe his fellow mortals, he still grossly underestimated their stupidity. An observation from which Ezio could not, in all honesty, spare himself.

He did not need Uncle Mario or Paola or Teodora to tell him that he couldn’t keep avoiding the man who alone could translate Altaïr’s Codex or build and maintain the weapons he needed to fight his enemies. But the more time passed, the more terrified he felt of meeting Leonardo again. He still walked by the bottega almost every day, but so far he’d failed to find the nerve to walk in. He needed a plan, or at least the courage to improvise, but neither had materialized.

“ _Porca Madonna!_ I feel so much better. I hate those wretched things.”

Ezio hid the notebook under his palm and looked up to see Rosa return in her customary attire — leather boots and hose, short doublet and tunic, just a degree more stylish than a Veneziano apprentice or an errand boy. She tossed a chiming purse on a table. The spoils from whatever ploy she’d needed the servant’s dress for, no doubt. In exchange for the coin, she tore a chunk of leftover bread and chicken from a platter and poured ale into a cup. With the bread hanging from her mouth, she threw herself onto a bench against the wall and attacked the food like a hungry fox. Ezio tried to ignore the way she propped one of her booted feet on the table, displaying both agility and shapely thighs.

In a world where no woman bared her lower body after the first few years of age, the sight of Rosa’s legs, covered as they were, had for a long time been rather... hard to ignore. It was also a criminal offense, one which some people considered more grievous than what she did for a living, since it went against God’s will. But Rosa did not care, and neither did the Guild she worked for. Ezio, too, had learned to pretend that he wasn’t affected by her choice of dress. Despite the hot and heavy flirting, he knew that her interests lay in a completely different direction.

“Why so silent, _assassino?_ ” Rosa asked once she could speak again. “Did Antonio have bad news?”

Ezio shrugged. “Just the usual. Emilio has raised the street merchant’s taxes again, and locked up more than a dozen men.”

“What distracted you? Does it have something to do with how you cover your face, or why you keep fondling your _pisellino?_ ” Rosa’s gaze brushed the hand on Ezio’s lap.

“What? I’m not fondling anything.” Ezio jerked his hand away. The gesture revealed the notebook he’d been hiding.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Coloring, Ezio shoved it back inside his clothes. He had to stop pawing and poking it at every possible turn. People would get the wrong impression. “So what did you want to speak with me about?”

“Oh, I just need your help in breaking into the house of this _canaglia_ who — look, never mind that. It can wait. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing.”

Rosa raised her brows. Ill at ease, Ezio leaned forward in his chair. “ _Bene_ , I’m lying. I came to talk to you, not Antonio. But this has to stay between you and me. _Capisce?_ ”

“Oh?” Rosa sat back with a delighted expression. “Go on.” Waiting for him to continue, she finished her chicken to the bone.

After a while, she adjusted the woolen cap on her short dark hair.

“Well, what is it? I know you’re not a man of many words, but talking usually involves less heavy silence.”

“Uhh... _bene._ ” He lowered his voice, trying for a confidential tone. He managed something between insinuation and panic. “Rosa, I know you prefer women. What would you think of —”

Rosa’s eyes widened. She tossed the chewed-on bone from her hand into a pewter bowl on the table. “ _Ma la senti la puzza delle stronzate che dici!_ For the last time, Ezio, you do _not_ get to watch!”

Ezio held up his hands. “You mistake me, Rosa.”

“No? What, then? Out with it! Do you think I have the whole day?”

“ _Calma._ I wanted to ask your advice. I have...” The words caught in his throat.

“You have...?” Despite her annoyance, Rosa was starting to look intrigued again.

“I have a... oh, for the love of... I like someone and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh.” She sat back, disappointed. “ _Che palle!_ Ezio, I’ve seen you with the ladies. You of all men don’t need advice how to get it on with them. Christ, I thought it would be something exciting, not just another skirt of yours.”

“I’m not speaking of a lady.”

“She’s a commoner? So what? A pick fits a lock no matter what it’s made of, Ezio. Never took you for a prig. Or is this a nobleman thing? Can’t see yourself settling down with some _puttana_ or a _cittadini’s_ daughter? I assume thoughts of settling down are involved. You wouldn’t come to me just because you’re hot in the breeches for some girl you’ve met.”

He’d thought about this long and hard. Of entrusting her with something that could, in theory, see both him and Leonardo to the gallows. Rosa, due to her preferences, seemed like the most obvious choice for someone to talk to. Although he was starting to doubt the wisdom of it, already.

“It’s... a man.” The last word was spoken so low, it was little more than a mumble within the shadow of Ezio’s hood.

“What?”

“A man,” he repeated louder, and felt an unexpected, great relief, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his chest.

It lasted all of the three heartbeats it took for Rosa to throw back her head and start howling with laughter.

She laughed so hard that she fell from her seat. Barely capable of controlling her limbs, she scrambled from the floor and stumbled after Ezio, who had gotten up from his chair and was walking toward the door.

“No, no! Stay! _Chiedo scusa!_ ” Still nearly doubled over, she grabbed his brawny arm and struggled for breath. “God, I almost peed my breeches!”

Ezio, who had rarely regretted anything he’d said to such an extent, looked from side to side and ground his teeth. He told himself it would have been inappropriate to wring her neck. For someone who had a knack for making men shit themselves with terror, he was certainly blessed with the acquaintance of women who had no respect for him whatsoever.

“ _Stare, stare, amore!_ Sit your arse back down. I swear I will try not to mock you.” Rosa made him return to his chair and leaned close, hands on his shoulders, unable to help the grin that threatened to split her face.

“ _Dimmi tutto, stallone._ Who is the lucky _bastardo?_ ”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

She made a sad face. “But, Ezio. We’re friends, no? What do you have to lose by trusting me a little?”

He gave her a look. She sighed. “ _Va bene_. But you still want to tell me, yes?”

He wasn’t at all sure he did. But talking about his problem would be difficult without telling _why_ exactly it was a problem. Aside from the obvious, of course.

“It’s Leonardo.”

She straightened a little, surprised. “Maestro da Vinci?”

“The same.” Ezio raised a finger. “And mock me all you want, but do not dare to laugh at him! He’s perfectly honorable! I know you’ve never met him —”

She held up her hands in surrender. “Mock him? Why would I want to mock _maestro da Vinci?_ And of course I’ve met him. Or, well, bumped into him, once or twice. It was terrible. He was wearing the finest _cappello_ and a red _capo,_ and all he had in his _borsellino_ were three _soldi_ , some _filo_ and a piece of _gesso_. Can you believe it? I felt so bad, I had to return it, saying he’d dropped it. And he just smiled and told me to keep it, since I obviously needed it more than him. _Gesù!_ I’ve never felt like such a criminal in my life.”

Ezio refrained from groaning. So, Rosa, too, was under Leonardo’s spell, like the damned flower girls fresh from the countryside who kept fainting when he smiled. Or the merchants’ wives who waited in their window every day to see him pass by on his way to the market. Or the gondoliers who competed each other for his patronage just to hear his stories. Or the filthy _lazzaroni_ brats he always had coppers for, even back when he could barely feed himself...

_Everybody loves him. Why should I deserve more than they?_

“Can we now agree that I have a problem?”

“Lusting after your best friend? Oh, Ezio. You’re completely screwed. But why come to _me_ for help? Haven’t you two been like the halves of a horse’s backside for years? Surely you know him better than anyone.”

“Well, you’re...” He gestured up and down.

She stepped back, hands on her hips. “ _That_ hardly makes me an expert on men, _amore._ ”

“I do not know who else to talk to.”

“ _Che dolce!”_ Softening, despite the potential irony of the words, Rosa pressed a finger to her lips, then sighed. “Alright. I hate to tell you this, since your head is swollen enough already, but you are one handsome _figlio d’un cane_ , Ezio. Also, the girls tell me your reputation in the sack isn’t entirely undeserved. Half the men in Venezia would probably bend over for you if you asked. Hell, _I_ would bend over for you if I didn’t already get more _pelo_ than I can handle. So you shouldn’t have worries in that regard. But if maestro da Vinci does not fancy his own kind, there’s nothing I can do. That is the way these things go.”

“I, ah... have reason to suspect that his interest is not an issue.” _Wait, what was that about bending over?_ Rosa certainly had a strange way of trying to bolster his confidence. Not that it wasn’t all true, but her manner of delivering a compliment made him uncertain whether he’d been insulted.

“So. Do I understand this correctly? You like him, he likes you.” She spread her hands. “What the fuck is the problem?”

“I kissed him. It didn’t go well.”

“You did? Ezio! What happened?”

“He panicked. It seemed complicated.”

“ _Porca puttana!”_ Rosa shuffled around. “Well, he _is_ the man who designed and built Lorenzo de’ Medici’s world-famous _viola organista_. Maybe it is no surprise that he over-complicates matters. Don’t look at me like that, ass-face, I don’t live in a cave! Since you’ve tried the direct approach, that leaves just talking. I understand that you’re a man of action, but it is what it is. Go and speak with him. See what happens.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say. He knows me far too well.”

“Terrible, I’m sure.” Rosa hopped to sit on the table and swung her legs. “Alright, then. What do _you_ want? To live on a farm and grow old together? Or just to pork him until he can’t stand?” She made an amazingly rude gesture.

 _Pork him until..?_ Ezio nearly choked at the thought.

There was no denying his recent physical reaction to Leonardo. But aside from a few guilty moments, he’d barely had the courage to think about the matter. Certainly not to the extent of abusing himself to it, strange as it seemed, since he wasn’t exactly lacking in imagination about women when the mood struck him. _‘Pork him.’ I can hardly even imagine how it would feel like if he kissed me back!_

He tried. He pictured Leonardo’s ever-smiling mouth moving on his own. So close, Leonardo’s scent would be all that he could smell. The body pressing against him would be tall and lean and muscular. Especially under him... naked... face down and moaning into the sheets while he kissed a burning trail down Leonardo’s back and between his round, pale — _wait, that escalated quickly_ —

He came to, sweating and groaning under his breath. Rosa was observing him with great interest.

_Well, at least my body has no misgivings about the matter._

“You enjoy this far too much,” he managed to say.

“You have no idea. Come now. Humor me. Talk to me about your manly feelings.”

Ezio’s tongue felt like a dead animal in his mouth. “Well...” He licked his lips and tugged at the beak of his hood, to hide his baking face. “He’s always been there for me, despite the danger. I owe him. A lot. My life, to start with. He’s the only one who ever helped me without wanting something in return.”

Rosa picked an olive from a plate and popped it in her mouth. “Admirable, but that’s not a reason to want to put your _spada_ in his —”

“Yes, yes. I mean, no.” In despair, Ezio sprang from the chair into nervous movement. His robes sighed softly and the floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he paced. “I don’t know when it happened. Maybe I’ve always had this thing for him. He’s my family, my brother. I live in constant fear that something might happen to him. It tears me apart that...” He realized he wasn’t making much sense. “Look, I haven’t slept much in three days. Do you have any ideas or not? God, I don’t know why I thought this would help. I’m leaving.”

“Ezio, you moron, go to him and tell him what you just told me.”

“It is not that simple.”

“Why? No, don’t say it. Honor, isn’t it? What the hell does it matter who you fuck? Think about it. Is life really so great that you can afford to shit on a little happiness?” She ate another olive, one foot pulled up on the table’s edge, the other swinging.

Ezio _had_ thought about it. But there were more important issues involved than the sudden troublesome inclinations his cock had developed.

No words could truly capture what he felt, so he just stated the facts, flat and bleak.

“He’s important to me. I don’t want to lose him. More importantly, I can’t afford to. I need his help.”

Rosa shook her head. “The way I see it, _compagno,_ if you don’t get this thing sorted out, you’ve already lost him.” She hopped onto her feet, walked over and clapped Ezio on the shoulder. She was a head shorter than him and little more than half his weight, but acted for all the world as if she had twice the balls. “You’re not a coward, eh? Talk to him. He’s smarter than both of us put together, and then some. He’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, well... fuck him! Or is it going to be the other way around?” Her gaze traveled him up and down. “Often it is the biggest hog that ends up rolling on the spit.”

Ezio went stiff. “What are you saying? I am a man, Rosa! Nobody is going to —”

She snorted. “ _Non perdere la testa, idiota. L’onore!_ How the fuck we haven’t all died long ago because of men and their stinking honor, I cannot fathom.” She turned away. “ _Ma vaffanculo, ora!_ I have better things to do than stroke your ego and tell you things you already know, you pretentious Fiorentino _cazzo._ ” Muttering, she went back to polish off what remained of the breakfast.

Ezio counted to ten, not wanting to be the second fool who stormed out that morning. This was why he’d come, wasn’t it? Rosa of all people would neither feel horror at his secret nor mock him with false platitudes.

She was right. He’d known all along what to do. Perhaps he’d just needed to hear it from another to really believe it. There was no going back to how things had been, no matter what Leonardo had said.

Talking, however, wasn’t necessarily what Ezio had in mind. He’d always been much better at simply acting.

“ _Mi dispiace._ You’re right. Thank you, Rosa. Even if you give a man the kind of advice that might get him knifed in a dark alley. I’ll come back later to talk to you about that house you want to break into, _sì?_ ”

With her back turned to him, she muttered around the bread she’d stuffed into her mouth. “Yeah, yeah... come back to poor Rosa when more important business is done... _ma fatti dare nel culo!”_ She flicked her fingers at him.

“I love you too, Rosa,” he said, and left.


	14. Chapter 14

The decision had been made. The planning and execution remained. Unfortunately, seducing overstrung geniuses wasn’t something _Zio_ Mario had included in Ezio’s training. He doubted the simple, lurid tricks he’d used on a few marks would get a favorable reaction out of a man who had for years resisted such temptations. 

He passed the day watching the comings and goings of Emilio’s men from the Seta, memorizing their patrol routes, trying to find a route in that wouldn’t end up with a crossbow bolt in his back — an exercise in futility, like so often before. But going to the bottega too early would have served no purpose, either. 

For a moment, he entertained the thought. How would it be, to walk through the front door in broad daylight, past the crowd always gathered there? Worth it, perhaps, to witness their reactions. But Ezio wasn’t shameless enough to do it. The Council tolerated maestro da Vinci’s presence because it was a prestige rivaled only by that of Botticelli or the Bellinis. The mighty merchant empire of La Serenissima was nothing if not pragmatic in matters of her honor and glory, but even her toleration had its limits. Ezio had already done enough damage to Leonardo’s reputation.

The clear day was coming to an end when he took to the roofs of San Polo. Beneath him, shadows crept from alleys and waterways, driving forth men who left their shops, shipyards and salt fields as the daylight failed. Women closed the shutters on their windows, children herded pigs and goats back from campos and waterfront pastures before nightfall. Pigeons sought the safety of housetops and campaniles. No one looked up to see the _l’ombra bianca_ navigate the maze of chimneys and red roofs and leap across narrow _rii_ , high above dark, stagnant water which sun’s rays rarely touched.

By the time Ezio reached the bottega, evening bells had been rang, and the sun was shining low and red over the mainland. Night guards called watchwords to each other and lighted the first torches and braziers under the eaves. Above the little landlocked square, Ezio crouched on the edge of the roof. Below him, the admirers who plagued Leonardo’s front door were long gone. Only Vanna hurried there, a bucket in hand, to the _pozzo_ of the central well. Light from between the attic shutters fell against the third floor balcony, proof that the maestro was home.

Ezio couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so unsure in such matters. Maybe when gathering courage to kiss the breathtaking 15-year-old Cristina Vespucci, the most celebrated beauty in all Firenze, kept in gilded imprisonment like all unmarried noblewomen of her age? He’d been little but a boy, back then. Now the many women of his past seemed to taunt him from memory. He’d learned their secrets so well since his fumbling touches with Cristina, but it was a language now as useless as a Dalmatian fishwife’s patter in a Veneziano market.

However, he never went into battle without _any_ kind of plan. Leonardo was gentle and bound to be reserved. Ezio would have to be patient... and perhaps a bit cunning.

He dropped on the balcony. When he made to knock on the door, he found it unlatched and ajar. _What is this? Anybody who can climb could walk in from here._

Placing gloved fingers on the door’s side, he turned it on its hinges with great caution.

Some little object flying at great speed struck it from inside.

An assassin without good nerves was soon a dead assassin. Thus Ezio did not jump back and fall to his death over the balustrade. When the mayhem did not continue, he resumed the task of opening the door, slowly in hopes of not making it creak.

Nearby lay a little broken jar from which ground black pigment had sprayed over the floor. Ezio looked further in.

In the middle of the wide room, Leonardo stood with his back to the door, in front of a small painting panel illuminated by several candlabras. Attired in hose, tight boots and a quilted woolen doublet that hung open from his shoulders, he held a glassware wine decanter against his waist in one hand and wrung a fistful of hair at the back of his head with the other, two brushes sticking from between his fingers.

“ _Pezzo di merda!”_ Leonardo muttered. “Why do I keep saying yes? I don’t even want to be a painter!”

Leonardo seemed entirely focused on what he was looking at. Indeed, when Ezio slipped inside and closed the door, he just drank straight from the decanter and continued to speak to himself.

“‘You spend too much, maestro.’ ‘These oil portraits make the most money, maestro.’ Well, to the hell with it! My head almost splits with more important things — and here I am, painting this _cazzo_ so that I won’t be sued again..!”

Propping a shoulder against the door frame, Ezio crossed his arms and watched.

Leonardo leaned toward the panel and, handling the brushes with all the dexterity Ezio might have demonstrated with his throwing knives, stroked translucent glaze over bright-colored paint, taking every once in a while more from a palette.

“I need another apprentice,” he continued to mutter. “Somebody who can actually paint, this time. Do Sandro or Domenico put up with this _stronzata?_ No! They paint the faces and hands and their students do the rest. But of course it is only possible with such a commercial style. Neither of them could execute my techniques if their lives depended on it. Worse, they wouldn’t do it because it takes too much time. Those vacant eyes...”

Leonardo paused and shuddered, then continued to paint.

“Why didn’t I think of this before? Should have done the same with those damned monks. Could have avoided the whole miserable incident if I just stayed drunk for a week. Would a simple man of faith care if some rachis or pinnae was left unshadowed? I’d wager not! What does it matter if I wouldn’t be able to look at it myself? Ahh, if only I didn’t care so much about the opinion of the ones that come after..! Better to leave things unfinished and let people imagine how perfect the completed work might have been.” Leonardo snorted tipsily at his own joke.

As always, the longer Ezio waited, the harder it became to reveal his presence. He reasoned that he was merely reluctant to startle Leonardo and cause damage to the painting. But he didn’t quite believe himself.

Finally the maestro straightened and stepped back to observe his work. To Ezio, the portrait looked finished already — and as always, beautiful enough to make him cry. But apparently Leonardo disagreed. He tapped the end of a brush against his jaw.

“Well, it’s a start,” he sighed, and took another swig from the decanter.

Ezio cleared his throat.

Leonardo wheeled, brushes in left hand. Wine sloshed from the container in his right. Ezio winced as it only barely missed the painting. Then he blinked, registering the great maestro’s appearance.

Despite the cool temperature, Leonardo was wearing no shirt under his quilted doublet. The open garment revealed a long stretch of his pale skin, from throat down to the belt that held his hose. His physique was well developed, if too lean, no doubt owing to less than regular eating habits. The hair on him was sparse compared to Ezio’s manly pelt, but nothing to be ashamed of.

Color burned on Leonardo’s face above the closely trimmed beard, between tangled fair hair. To complete the impression of artistic disarray, black paint and something that might have been sawdust and dark wood stain smeared his clothes and skin. Ezio had never understood how such a particular person could get himself so dirty when working. It had to have something to do with how deeply he concentrated.

Leonardo rocked on his feet, obviously trying to adjust to his changed reality. He lowered the hand that held the brushes.

“Ezio!” he muttered. “I’m afraid I’m not in a condition to take guests at the moment. Come back tomorrow. Or maybe the day after, given that I might be indisposed.”

Ezio knew that beyond the candles’ reach, he was little but a white shadow in the falling dark. Knowledge that Leonardo couldn’t see his discomposure gave him confidence. He made his voice deliberately low.

“So, I’m a guest now, eh? I’ve seen you drunk many times before, _amico_. You’ve even puked on me, if memory serves, that one time in the _bordello_ in Firenze...”

Leonardo waved his hand dismissively and seemed to notice he was still holding the brushes. He pointed them at a cup and succeeded in dropping them in it.

“We were young,” he said. “It was another time.”

“Five years ago, Leonardo. We’re hardly old, now. Well, at least I’m not. Not sure about you, _vecchio._ ”

Instead of replying with a joke like Ezio might have expected, Leonardo just frowned, as if his thoughts weren’t connected to what Ezio had said.

Ezio pushed himself from the door frame. He shrugged the red Medici cape onto his shoulder and stepped further into the room, enough for the candlelight to catch reflections from his eyes under the hood. Thumbs under his belt, he stood and waited. He’d left his armor behind, but the usual wealth of weapons hung against his splayed thighs.

The silence stretched. Finally, he asked the only question that came to mind.

“Why are you half naked, you moron? It’s not exactly warm in here.”

Leonardo glanced at himself, as if surprised to remember what Ezio himself could barely look away from. “Oh. I forgot. I was posing, earlier, for the students. Teaching them the musculature of the arm and shoulder, and the model I’d employed for the task did not come. My assistants are unfortunately not very muscular at all. One of the cats peed on my shirt and I couldn’t bother Vanna to get a new one. She was busy making dinner. Then I retired here to work and, well...”

“You posed _in the nude?”_ An image of infatuated young Tonio, pretty as a picture, ogling at his master’s exposed body, emerged to burn Ezio’s mind. _Excellent. I’m jealous at a seventeen-year-old virgin._

Leonardo chuckled. “Don’t look so scandalized. Just from the waist up. I’ve stood butt naked for the purpose many times.”

_Yes — back in Verrocchio’s workshop, when you had no choice!_

Ezio forced himself to calm down. Fantasizing of stabbing Leonardo’s students hardly helped his frame of mind. “Fine. Parade naked in the Arsenale for all I care,” he said. “I think we have some unfinished business to deal with.”

Leonardo’s smile faltered. But only for a second. When he recovered, Ezio could have sworn he was exaggerating the effects of his insobriety. “Like I said, _scimmietta,_ I’m in no condition to engage in a discussion. Come back some other day. I should finish this painting.”

“Look at that thing! It is finished already.”

Leonardo did. “Hardly. There are at least two more layers of _sfumato_ to add, and the fur is missing all the highlights...”

“Let it dry, then. I’m not leaving.” _Because if I do, I might not have the courage to return._ But he didn’t need to say that out loud.

Leonardo frowned. He tried to touch his face and noticed that the wine decanter was still in his hand. Looking at it in displeasure, he placed it on the trestle table that held his painting supplies, and relented.

“Very well. If you insist.”

 _All right, then._ Ezio opened his mouth. But before he could say anything, Leonardo was already speaking.

“Listen,” he said and started to shuffle around. “I’ve thought this through very carefully.”

Ezio closed his mouth.

“At first I couldn’t see any logic to what you did. I even went as far as suspect that you were making fun of me. Then I realized that I was being unfair. You would never be so cruel. And that finally helped me understand what tricked you into such an act. You’re young, and youth is a time of chaotic emotions. I have been through it too recently to have forgotten. Young people mistake their feelings for more than they are — gratitude for obligation, affection for allegiance, even attraction. They act out of whim or curiosity. Your behavior was completely understandable. You were merely—”

“Confused?”

“Yes!” Leonardo straightened and smiled, apparently relieved that he’d been so easily understood.

 _What if he’s right?_ Several months short of his four and twentieth birthday, and unwed, Ezio was not even considered a fully grown adult. How was he supposed to —

Then he realized what was happening.

“No need to feel embarrassed, _ragazzo._ We can just forget it and go back to the way things were.”

“You have it all figured out, eh?” Ezio growled.

“Of course.”

Ezio counted to ten.

“How can someone so intelligent be so completely _pazzo?”_ he exploded then and stabbed air with his gloved finger. “Stop trying to dissect my head like you do to those corpses!”

Leonardo spread his hands. “But... it is the most logical explanation. Did you not come here to talk?”

“No! You’re far too good at it. You could make people believe that eating and speaking out of their arseholes makes the most sense. By God, I think you could convince _yourself_ , if you wanted!”

“Then — why did you come?” Leonardo asked, bewildered.

“To do this.”

Ezio started unbuttoning his jerkin.

Leonardo’s eyes widened. Color drained from his skin. For a moment, he was completely speechless.

Ezio held his gaze on Leonardo’s face, gloved hands working beneath the baldrick and the strap of his cape. With the leather-enforced garment open to his belt, he put his hand inside it and pulled out the notebook, and held it between thumb and forefinger next to his head.

Leonardo blinked in surprise. Blood returned to his cheeks.

“You found it! Thank God! I thought I’d lost it forever.” He stepped forward.

Ezio raised his hand. “Wait. There’s something I want in return.”

Leonardo stopped, smiling uncertainly. “Oh? What is it, my friend?”

“A kiss.”

For a while, the room was silent enough to hear Vanna putter downstairs in her pattens.

“ _Scusami?”_ Leonardo said, then, the smile frozen on his face. “I believe I misheard you.”

“I said, a kiss. A proper one.”

A bark of laughter, now. “ _Mi prendi in giro..!_ ”

“I’m not joking.”

At last, the smile disappeared. Leonardo looked vaguely nauseous. Not the reaction Ezio had been hoping for. He was starting to suspect that this would be even more difficult than he’d feared.

“Ezio, _per l’amore di Dio._ ”

“One kiss. You kiss people all the time.” _Just not in the way I’m thinking._

Leonardo straightened to his full considerable height and crossed his arms, controlling his level of intoxication to the point where it was barely noticeable. “Fine. Keep it, then,” he said.

“Don’t be childish. It’s just a kiss. I’m not asking you to suck my dick.” Ezio didn’t expect the rush of excitement that ran through him at the crude words.

For a second, Leonardo seemed too shocked at his vulgarity to speak. “It is you who are being childish!” he cried, then. “I will do no such thing!”

“ _Bene._ Then it is going in a channel.”

“Wha— how — you wouldn’t!”

“You want to try me, _amico?_ ”

Leonardo’s blue eyes narrowed.

 _Madonna. I’ve never before seen him angry at me. Annoyed, yes... but not angry._ Instead of chastened, Ezio felt darkly pleased. Happiness and laughter weren’t just Leonardo’s natural reaction to the world, they were his defense against it, a way of hiding his true feelings and keeping people at an arm’s length. As approachable as he was, his cheerful disposition also made him elusive, a fact that had taken Ezio years to understand. Anger had to be a fairly good sign that one was getting under his skin.

Ezio waved the notebook. “Imagine. All this hard work and ideas that might never return... washed away in piss and shit.” He shook his head. “Such a pity.”

Had Leonardo been sober, Ezio was relatively certain he would have found himself outside not many seconds later. Despite the man’s friendliness, Ezio knew he was also intensely proud.

Then Leonardo released his arms from their forbidding posture across his chest.

“Fine,” he said.

Before Ezio had had time to recover from his surprise, or even to lower his hand, Leonardo had crossed the distance between them. Swaying just a little, he bent and squeezed his closed lips to Ezio’s, careful not to touch anything unnecessary.

The contact was tight and angry and lasted all of two heartbeats. When Ezio could perceive Leonardo’s warmth and the sweet familiar scent shot through with alcohol, it was already over. Leonardo pulled back a couple of steps and lifted his chin.

“Done,” he snapped. “Now give me back my property.”

Ezio searched Leonardo’s face from under his hood. “You call that a kiss? Could have just slapped me, for Christ’s sake.”

Leonardo stared at him, speechless again. A strand of golden hair had fallen across his eyes. They were still standing so close that Ezio could have counted the freckles on his friend’s paint-stained skin. He wondered if they also continued on Leonardo’s chest, but did not trust himself to look.

“Have you gone mad?” Leonardo cried, then. “What in God’s name are you trying to prove?!”

Ezio pulled his mouth into a crooked smile. “ _Ascoltami_ , Leonardo. You’re a man of science. I’m giving you a chance to show me that your theory is right. If I’m just confused, I won’t feel a thing. Maybe I will even be disgusted. We will never have to talk about this again. Just the way you said you wanted. _Sì?”_

Leonardo looked as if he was about to keel over.

“Come now. We both know you don’t find me disgusting,” Ezio purred, the same voice he’d used on women so many times with great success.

At once, he knew he’d gone too far. The maestro stiffened and his eyes lit with outrage. _Shit. He’s going to tell me to fuck off. He’s going to hit me, and kick me out —_

“One kiss?” The words were little more than a hiss.

“I swear.” Ezio’s heart started to hammer.

“Very well.”

Leonardo stepped closer. Ezio could feel warmth radiating from him again. _God, no wonder he isn’t cold. He’s like a goddamn oven._ Leonardo’s masculinity was overwhelming and thoroughly disconcerting. Suddenly the memory of kissing Cristina Vespucci seemed like petting a kitten.

Panic squeezed Ezio’s gut. There was no way this would end well, was there? He’d make a complete fool of himself. He should have practiced first with some poor _stronzo._

Leonardo looked mesmerized and a bit queasy, as if he was really trying to figure out some fascinating but dangerous experiment. He leaned toward Ezio. But just inches away, he stopped and straightened, and blinked as though a veil had been removed from his eyes. 

“No,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear, his anger suddenly gone. “This isn’t how it should happen.”

_He’s changed his mind. He’s realized that he’s drunk, that I’m full of bullshit, that nothing I said makes sense —_

But instead of telling him to get the hell out, Leonardo came closer still, close enough for their clothes to brush. Ezio felt strong hands on both sides of his hooded face.

Then Leonardo bowed his neck and pressed their mouths together.


	15. Chapter 15

Aside from simply being thrown or laughed out, Ezio had expected many things. Several of them had involved apologies and awkwardness. Most of all he’d expected Leonardo to be shy, and since Ezio himself wasn’t exactly experienced in making love to a man, inept fumbling was almost guaranteed to ensue.

In the grand scheme of things, a bit of awkwardness mattered little. He was prepared to take things slow. He had decided be understanding and charming and patient — and confident, if need be, given that it would take some heavy bluffing.

None of his half-baked plans had allowed for the possibility that Leonardo might be a fantastic kisser.

Ezio liked to think of himself as not half bad in the fine art of making out. That, at least, was what his success with women seemed to suggest. But from the first contact of their lips, he could tell that he was outmatched. There were no tricks to Leonardo’s technique. He just met the task with the same passion, skill and dedication as he did everything else — and with the same disarming, unrelenting tenderness.

The notebook dropped from Ezio’s fingers as he raised his hands to Leonardo’s waist. Without breaking the kiss Leonardo slid one hand down Ezio’s back, pulling him close, and with the other, tilted his hooded head to slant their mouths more closely together.

Without doubt, it felt strange to have a man’s hairy face rub against his own in such an amorous manner. But the idea that he might have been put off by it had been hopeful nonsense. Like before, his physique was only too eager to acknowledge how little about Leonardo it found disgusting. _Behave yourself, you great slut. It’s just a kiss. No reason to get excited_. But he couldn’t help himself. The damned man was taunting him, not even bothering to compete, just blatantly promising something unbelievable if Ezio yielded. And Ezio couldn’t help wanting to find out what he would win if he lost. When the tip of a warm tongue teased his mouth, his self-restraint unraveled. He moaned and pressed against Leonardo and chased the tongue with his own.

At its touch, Leonardo suddenly went still and then pulled away.

For a second, Ezio couldn’t remember where he was and why. Around him, the room looked the same as before, familiar in its clutter. The candles burned where they had, lighting the same nigh finished portrait on its lintel, along with the same painting supplies and fine Murano wine decanter arranged on the same trestle table near it. But something was different, something Ezio couldn’t put to words — as if the way he saw things had changed.

Leonardo had staggered backwards and was now standing out of reach, looking wild and drunk, not like his usual neat image at all. Only now did Ezio notice that Leonardo had been deeply aroused by the kiss. There was little he could do to hide it, what with his open doublet and lack of shirt, and linen breeches being all that covered the gap between the fitted legs of his hose. Going by the deep flush that was spreading from Leonardo’s face to his chest, he had no misconceptions of his own condition, either.

After months of uncertainty, the evidence of Leonardo’s need should perhaps have satisfied. But Ezio was far too shaken to tell one emotion from another.

He wanted to go to Leonardo and beg him to continue the kiss and finish what he’d started.

He wanted to turn and run as far and as fast as he could.

Instead of doing either, he just stood where he was, petrified like an idiot.

“Is your curiosity sated?” Leonardo managed to ask at last. “Can I have my notebook back now?”

The words were so ludicrous Ezio could hardly comprehend them. His curiosity, sated? All he’d gained were more questions. Starting from _where the devil did you learn to kiss like that?_ It was true that Leonardo seemed to excel in most anything he tried, but no amount of natural talent could create such brazen confidence. It took practice. A lot of it. Definitely more than a hasty snog or two with a whore many years ago.

“Who gives a _cazzo_ about your damn notebook!”

Leonardo looked vaguely insulted. His cheeks burned red with something that was now more than just embarrassment. “Are you trying to tell me that it was some kind of joke?”

“What? No!”

But Leonardo waved away the objection. Again Ezio was quite certain he was exaggerating his drunkenness. “ _Intesi,”_ he murmured. _“Che idiota sono!_ ”

To his dismay, Ezio realized what was happening. It was not effortless, on account of Leonardo’s intoxication, but soon the man would be smiling again, even laughing, pretending that it had all indeed been a joke. Ezio could already imagine the self-deprecating excuses he’d invent for his physical reaction. Something to do with how long it was since he’d last held another human being, perhaps.

Finally struck out of his daze, Ezio closed the distance between them and grabbed the lapel of Leonardo’s jacket with a gloved hand. Leonardo’s brow tightened, but he did not say anything, just lifted his bearded chin. Under the stink of alcohol, he still smelled wonderful. Olive-oil soap and the faintest trace of fresh sweat, and the cedar shavings Vanna stored his clothes with.

It had taken all of Ezio’s skills at persuasion to get through the man’s damned hide. He wasn’t going to give up, now.

“I know about your trial in Firenze,” he blurted. _Fuck. That was eloquent._ He could almost hear Rosa laughing in his head.

“ _What?”_ Leonardo looked at him, blue eyes widening in horror. At least he wasn’t trying to deny it, or deflect the words with humor.

“I know! And I don’t care. Well, not anymore.”

“How — how did you come about this?”

“Does it matter?” Ezio’s grip on Leonardo’s clothes relaxed. Awkwardly, he smoothed down the rumpled, quilted cloth over bare breast, trying for a more persuasive register. “It is true, what you said in the Spaniard’s palazzo. I saw the drawings. And it is also true that I’m obliged to you, Leonardo, but how can you believe that I offered what I did out of — what do you take me for?” He realized he wasn’t making a very good job of explaining himself. “I love you, you fool. I would do anything for you.”

Leonardo seemed dizzy. _“Dio mio._ Is this some sort of test?”

“No!” Ezio’s voice lowered further into a soft rumble. “Why are you making this so _maledetta_ difficult? I am not... averse... to what you want.” It was the closest his pride allowed him to saying that he wanted it, too — after that mind-bending kiss, he was almost ready to ask for it.

For a while Leonardo gazed at him with such an excruciating, tormented look that Ezio was almost certain he would give in.

Then the maestro gathered what remained of his dignity. “It is not a matter of what I want,” he said with a ragged sort of pride, as if explaining something to a child. “You’re Madonna Maria’s son.”

It was Ezio’s turn to step back.

“What does my _mother_ have to do with this?” He nearly bit his tongue at the tone of his voice. Well, intimidation had always come to him more naturally than charm.

Leonardo paced a little. Ezio was not sure whether the man was more frustrated by his slowness or his own inebriation. “I almost told you, back in Firenze. When you came to me after the Gonfaloniere’s betrayal. Don’t you remember?”

Of course Ezio remembered. He remembered every detail of that day.

“You told me that my mother helped you when no one else would.”

“Yes! The Signoria wanted an example, someone to prove that no filthy _frocio_ is safe from God’s own justice. The others had protectors, family. I alone had no one, not even the support of my father, who wanted nothing to do with me. I was going to lose everything, Ezio. My honor. My profession. My life, if fate so decided.”

Ezio knew from reading the court records that Leonardo had spent four months imprisoned in Palazzo Della Signoria. It must have been terrifying, for such a gentle and proud man especially, to wait week after week for the shameful trial, knowing that he would after it be subjected to the wrath and ridicule of the mob — possibly maimed for life, or worse. The thought turned his stomach.

“Madonna Maria saved me,” Leonardo continued. “Not in a thousand years can I repay her kindness. Certainly not by —” He was unable to finish.

“By what?”

But Leonardo was barely listening, and stared past Ezio as if at something that wasn’t there. “I sought out your mother after you visited and brought me Giovanni’s blade. The sight haunts me to this day. I do not know if she even recognized me. I swore to her I’d protect you, that I’d use whatever gifts God has given me to help you in any way I can. I made an oath to act honorably, Ezio. I cannot break my word!”

 _Men and their stinking honor..!_ So Leonardo, too, was a victim of unyielding principles.

“Is it the trial that made you decide to live like a monk?” Ezio asked.

Leonardo looked at him, jarred from his reverie, and frowned. “I — I do not see how that is any of your business, _ragazzo!”_

Ezio crossed his arms. “Fine. What about Paola?”

“Paola?” Now Ezio was certain Leonardo was pretending to be obtuse.

“The Madame of _La Rosa Colta_ back in Firenze, I’m sure you remember. Who is she to you?”

“I painted her portrait.”

Well, it seemed that Paola wasn’t always right, after all.

“A portrait.” Ezio watched Leonardo from the shadow of his cowl. He couldn’t see any trace of dishonesty. He remembered how easily the man had lied to the Mamluk Templar. “Yet she trusted you well enough to send me to you when I was the most hunted man in all Firenze, and reveal to you the secret of my heritage. Should I believe that she did that knowing only that you were a painter? Or that my mother helped you out of simple kindness to a stranger? I may not be a genius, _fratello,_ but I know bullshit when I hear it.”

Leonardo ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “It is not bullshit! You’re speaking of things you do not understand.”

“Are you so sure? I spoke to Paola about you, you know.”

Leonardo’s reaction was beyond anything Ezio might have expected. All color bleached from the man’s face. It took a moment before he could speak.

“You spoke to Paola of me?” Leonardo’s normally just husky voice had turned downright hoarse.

“Yes,” Ezio said, bewildered, but careful not to show it.

“What did she tell you?”

“Everything,” Ezio lied without missing a beat. Leonardo was lying to him, after all — why shouldn’t he do the same?

“Everything? Even about— No, she wouldn’t. I don’t believe you.”

Ezio smirked, then wiped the expression off his face. _Don’t overdo it, you idiot._ “How do you think I knew about the trial?”

He fully expected Leonardo to call his bluff. He was sure that, any other day, the man would have. But apparently even the great maestro da Vinci was susceptible to being rendered stupid by an excess of wine. Looking like his legs barely carried him, he walked to the trestle table and leaned heavily against it.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I cannot believe she betrayed me!”

Ezio felt more puzzled than ever. The depth of Leonardo’s shock worried him a bit. _What the hell can be that bad?_ When he spoke, his words were an embarrassed grumble. “I had to do something. No one ever tells me anything!”

Leonardo rubbed his eyes. “Did it not occur to you, _piccolino,_ that not all things are yours to know?!” He refrained from raising his voice, but its tone (and the rather sarcastic endearment) conveyed his emotion.

_Shit, he’s furious._

“I said I don’t care.” _What, exactly, don’t I care about?_ “I would never reveal your secrets to anyone, Leonardo, you must know that!”

“God forbid, I should hope so.” The barely noticeable tremble of Leonardo’s hand on his forehead betrayed the level of his anger. “I would like to be alone, now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“ _Bene_. Then I am.” Leonardo started sidling along the table’s edge, trying to put one tight leather boot in front of the other without tripping.

Ezio crossed the floor and grabbed Leonardo’s arm. If the man truly wanted to leave, it would take violence to prevent him. But Leonardo just stiffened and looked away, pale and angry.

“Again, I said I don’t care, and I mean it! Why don’t you believe me?” Ezio knew his lies and half-truths went against everything he’d decided. But what could he do? The cursed man had turned out to be more obstinate than all the mules in Italy combined. “I am sick and tired of being treated like a child!”

Something flashed in Leonardo’s averted eyes. “My desire not to have my past paraded like a sordid spectacle for scandal-mongers and snickering buffoons has nothing to do with your maturity or the lack of it!”

“You just told me you don’t take me seriously because I’m too young!”

“You are too young! Your abominable behavior this moment proves it.”

“It is your stupidity that makes me behave this way!” Now Ezio really did bite his tongue. _Patience. Understanding. Fuck._ He inched closer, still holding the other man by his arm. “Be honest, Leonardo! Don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything when you kissed me. I know you did. Do you really think we can go back to the way things were? You pride yourself on your intelligence, for God’s sake!”

“Let go of me, Ezio.” Color had returned to Leonardo’s freckled cheeks. They were now standing close enough for Ezio to sense his heartbeat, faster than could be explained just by an elevated temper.

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurting me!”

Ezio, who knew he wasn’t holding Leonardo tight enough to cause much pain, looked down between them.

“ _Amico,_ I hate to break this to you, but if that is true, you’re a sick _bastardo_.”

Leonardo blushed.

“You want me to humiliate myself?” he said through his teeth, more upset than Ezio had ever seen him. “Fine. What does it matter, if you know everything? You’re the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I have wanted to do terrible things to you from the moment I first saw you. Sometimes I wanted you so bad I thought I would die. You have no idea of the hell I’ve been through.” He blinked, obviously shocked at what he’d blurted out. “Oh, God. I think I need to throw up.”

Ezio stared.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked then, softly, all the spleen bled out of him. “I would rather cut off my hand than hurt you!”

“I’m not afraid,” Leonardo muttered, sweating. “I stopped being afraid a long time ago. I just know you. How could I not? I have watched you go through women like washcloth for the past six years. You don’t want men, and you most certainly don’t want me. It is merely in your nature to be curious. You’re just f— _Madonna..!_ ”

Leonardo’s hands flew up to Ezio’s shoulders.

“I’m just what?” Ezio asked, making his voice low again. His eyes glinted under the cowl.

“F-fooling with me.” He barely heard the words.

 _Am I?_ For a moment, Ezio felt uncertain.

He was astonished at his own audacity. _So much for going slow, I suppose._ He kept his gloved hand where it was between them, doing what it had started.

 _Shit, it’s a_ cazzone _._ Ezio had a notion that he could have held Leonardo’s heart in his hand, and it would have felt less intimate.

Leonardo’s fingers clutched him, not quite trying to stop him. The blue eyes lost their focus. Leonardo’s mouth parted, revealing the edge of even white teeth. Despite the low temperature of the room, a drop of sweat rolled down the side of his neck. Ezio bent forward and swiped it away with his tongue. It tasted like salt and the hot skin beneath. But it was the intimacy of the gesture that undid him, how completely it went against the platonic nature of their friendship.

Leonardo twitched. His hardening pushed into Ezio’s palm like an eager pet, leaking precum through linen cloth. Its girth made Ezio blush. Leonardo was bigger than him. A lot bigger. _Who knew._ He thought about the kiss, the unapologetic way Leonardo had possessed his mouth.

“You said you wanted to do terrible things to me.” Ezio’s voice felt like gravel. “What kind of things?”

Leonardo’s adam’s apple jumped under his neatly trimmed beard, but he didn’t reply, just breathed heavily and moistened his lips with his tongue.

“How about... you show me the most terrible thing you can think of?” Knowing Leonardo, it was unlikely to be very terrible. Obviously he’d used the word figuratively. Right?

Leonardo nearly choked. “You cannot be serious.”

Ezio looked up. The eyes above his were dark and hooded and only an idiot would have ignored the warning in them.

“What, you think I’m afraid of _you?_ You big pussyc—”

Leonardo swayed toward him, a hand behind his cowled neck, and nearly crushed his mouth with his own.

The kiss had little of Leonardo’s earlier controlled skill in it, but, what it lacked in technique, it made up with blinding urgency. Ezio had to stop what he was doing and concentrate on staying upright — no meager feat with the strong hands suddenly all over him and the tongue tickling his throat. Tangling, they stumbled against the table, causing it to rock and the things on it to rattle.

Ezio’s weapons clattered as he was turned to lean against the wooden structure. It did not feel nearly sturdy enough to bear his heavy frame, but he had little choice, given the tall and thoroughly turned on master painter pressing against him. _Shy and timid. Right._ There was little gentle submission to the way Leonardo embraced him, and Ezio could tell it was not just a matter of losing his temper.

Suddenly he wasn’t at all certain about what he’d started.

He felt a hand at the front of his waist, and heard the sound of buckles opening. His belt clattered to the table, taking with it his stiletto, throwing knives and pouches. All the while kissing him with enough ruthless determination to steal his breath, Leonardo loosened the red silk sash that circled his waist, then the Medici cape on his shoulder. With one hand at the small of his back to maneuver him, Leonardo swept the belt, sash and cape to the floor, making the items and papers on the table topple and flutter down in their wake.

Somehow Ezio’s arms had found their way around around Leonardo’s neck in what was not a very manly gesture at all.

His baldric went next, opened with a few sharp, determined tugs. His sword fell in its sheath against the floor with a metallic thud. Working on his clothes now, Leonardo forced Ezio’s weight back on the table and settled between his thighs to unbutton and unbuckle.

Ezio knew he should have done something to keep things from escalating. Clearly Leonardo wasn’t acting like himself. But somehow it was suddenly difficult to wish things wouldn’t escalate even further. When Leonardo’s warm hand found its way under his shirt, to ruffle the hair on his sweating skin and trace the hard ridges of his muscles, the moan he’d been trying to keep in broke out of him. And when that same hand went under his breeches and wrapped around him, all he could do was pray he wouldn’t squirt in minutes like a thirteen-year-old.

Leonardo stilled. As if from some great depth, he struggled up to speak. The hoarse ache in his voice made Ezio shiver.

“Tell me now if you want me to stop.”

 _Stop what?_ The things Leonardo’s oh-so-knowing hand was doing to him? Ezio shook his head, reduced to non-verbality by something as embarrassingly simple as the promise of a handjob in his breeches.

Leonardo nodded and leaned to catch Ezio’s breath with his mouth again.

Later Ezio wasn’t sure what happened. One moment he was being kissed, so sweet and lewd he almost cried, and on the verge of starting to thrust into that mercilessly tender hand. The next he was lying prone on the table, his shirt up and his robes open, his legs heaved against a broad-shouldered lean figure, the beak of his hood pressed over his eyes by way of accident so he couldn’t see. He had a terrible feeling he hadn’t put up much of a fight to keep from ending up in such a position — in fact, he feared he’d assumed it quite willingly, not unlike how he now allowed his chausses and breeches to be shoved around his thighs. Cool air met throbbing flesh, making him gasp. He blinked against the cloth, trying to make sense of things through the roar of blood in his brain, and failing.

Something that might have been a jar of liquid toppled near his head.

Then Leonardo leaned against his thighs and slick warm fingers pressed to his crack.

Ezio’s mouth worked without sound. Heat rushed through him, filling him, pushing away anything remotely human from his brain. From some dark place, a thwarted, shapeless fantasy surfaced, so secret it had remained half hidden even from himself. When a finger teased and breached him, his mind went blank. He arched against the table, the hood pressed to his eyes, mouth slack. Honor became a meaningless abstraction.

That single finger was all the preamble he got before another belt clicked open. Something blunt and broad settled where the finger had been. His throat worked but no sound that resembled speech came out. He knew what was happening in theory, but couldn’t truly comprehend it.

Then Leonardo started pushing in and theory became reality with the force of a Toledo blade thrusting through flesh and bone.

“Oh, God..!” Ezio groaned through his teeth.

It hurt. Enough to force tears from his eyes. But God help him, he still wanted it. He made himself relax and breathe, even if he couldn’t quite reach true calm.

Inevitably, impossibly, it happened.

“ _Non ci credo,”_ Leonardo moaned, somewhere, drunk with lust.

 _Fuck you!_ Ezio wanted to howl. Or maybe, _I love you._ It came out a wordless moan. He couldn’t believe his own prick wasn’t getting soft. And he’d teased Leonardo about being a sick bastard. _Who knew._

Holding him in place by his thighs, Leonardo pushed deeper. Ezio felt like he was being impaled on something carved out of stone. But at no point did the pain become unbearable, even as he couldn’t believe that what he’d held earlier in his hand would actually fit in him.

 _He’s done this before, many times. He knows how to take a man, how to give pleasure to someone who likes it._ And there was no question where Ezio lie in that embarrassing equation. He knew that he’d go off if he as much as brushed himself.

Finally buried to the hilt, Leonardo stopped for a moment. Ezio blinked water from his eyes, still blindfolded by his own hood. He grabbed Leonardo’s wrists where they were braced against the table’s edge, and tried to speak. But he couldn’t find his voice before Leonardo moved again.

He moaned and his head fell back and the words fled from his mind.

The pain faded, still there, but meaningless. He wondered if this was how it felt to be close to God. Later he would consider it proof of his vileness that it didn’t even feel like much of blasphemy.

_Jesus, Mary, and the saints. I didn’t know._

After a few tentative thrusts things dissolved into a hard, fast fucking. There was no more thinking.

Ezio had known it wouldn’t last long. After just a minute of it, he took himself in hand and stroked, not even bothering to take off his glove. There was no force on earth that could keep him from coming. In seconds, he coiled up from the table. The first hot, white rope spilled across his stomach and chest, up to his hooded face and open mouth.

Somewhere Leonardo stuttered in disbelief as he crashed back down, still coming.

_Forgive me, God, anyone. I didn’t know._

It took a while. Finally he squeezed out the last shiver and realized Leonardo had come, too, half on top of him, half inside.

With a trembling hand, he pushed the hood from his eyes and stared at the shadowed rafters.

He was still shuddering, with his legs in the air and Leonardo struggling for breath between them, still inside him, broad shoulders heaving under his boots. Thick dark-gold hair hung in tangles around Leonardo’s head.

“ _Pietà,”_ he heard Leonardo whisper, bleary and intoxicated.

Ezio wiped the spunk from his face, muttering to himself.

Leonardo staggered back. Letting his booted feet drop against the floor, Ezio raised his head to look at himself. The sight was indescribable. He was spread on the table like some sort of messy dinner. Going by Leonardo’s expression, the utter depravity of it didn’t escape him, either.

“I — I —” Leonardo went bright red under his freckles.

Doubtful his legs would carry him any time soon, Ezio pushed up to sit and pulled his shirt down to cover himself. Filth soaked the linen, but he didn’t care.

Leonardo had stuffed himself back in his breeches and was now closing his belt with shaking fingers, looking very much like he was in danger of being strangled by his own dismay.

“Right,” he croaked. “I’m — I have to —” Unable even to form a complete sentence, he turned to go, nearly stumbling over his own feet and the clothes, weapons, jars, brushes and glassware that littered the floor.

For the life of him, Ezio couldn’t figure out what was happening, it was so hard to think, with his brain still sluggishly leaking out of his ears, and the strange roaring in the back of his mind telling him to get up and go.

Somehow Leonardo succeeded in crossing the room. He half descended, half slipped down the stairs, a hand on the wooden railing. Out of sight, he called for Giovanna.

Suddenly the situation gained an angle that had nothing to do with pain or pleasure.

Ezio cringed, remembering his uninhibited cries and how the table had creaked. Vanna was not deaf or dumb. She adored her master, but was that enough? Sobered by the thought, Ezio at last gained control over his unsteady legs. Somewhat less efficient than usual, he fastened his clothes and put his gear back in order, stopping only to brush away the worst of sawdust, ground pigment and cat hair from them.

Downstairs, he heard footsteps and an exchange, but couldn’t make out the words or the tone of voice. He did not waste effort trying to understand either.

Surprisingly, his body still remembered how to walk. In a dream that resembled something he’d done dozens of times before, he went through the room, opened the balcony door and leaped on the balustrade. Twisting against it, he pushed up, pulling himself to the roof, where he promptly tripped on its edge. He stumbled so hard that everyone inside had to hear his weapons clatter on the tiles.

Not stopping to favor his hurting knee, the assassin limped across the roof and made haste toward the full moon rising over Venezia and the black face of the lagoon.

Somehow he made his way to _La Rosa_ without falling into a canal once, and climbed to the small attic room Teodora had reserved for him.

The latch that held the shutters was easy enough to jigger open with one of his blades. As usual, a servant had left a cold meal for him near the door. He ate it at the only small table of the room, not seeing much and tasting little, but aware he needed the fuel. After putting away his gear, he wiped himself with the cold water and towels left in the corner and went to bed.

Wrapped in blankets, he stared into the darkness, sensing the aches and stings in his body, ignoring them with the same dazed vehemence with which he stopped himself from thinking too closely about the continuing strange roar in his head.

He closed his eyes, and slept without dreams far beyond the first light of morning.

o o o

Over the next days, Ezio kept himself busy.

In a city of Venezia’s size and disposition, there was always enough knavery going on to employ an assassin and thief in need of distraction. Neither Teodora or Antonio were particularly happy about Ezio’s choice of things to do, but he gave them little chance to voice their disapproval.

Soon the city had fallen into a satisfying state of uproar. After a long time of managing to keep a low profile, Ezio’s hooded face again appeared on the walls in posters. Heralds started their usual slander, spouting lies about his past and exaggerating his crimes. Once again, he became the most wanted man in the Republic. Such a prestige was usually more trouble than it was worth — but right now, it served its purpose. Being hunted left and right meant that his time and energy were consumed by remaining alive, instead of thinking.

A week and a half passed.

Then the inevitable reckoning finally arrived in the form of Sister Teodora’s knocking on his door.


	16. Chapter 16

At hearing Teodora’s voice, Ezio stood up from where he’d been ciphering a letter to Uncle Mario by the window.

If he just ignored her, would she go away? It had already worked on the servant she’d sent before. But somehow Ezio got the impression that the Madame of _La Rosa_ would not be so easily discouraged. He waited by the small table, still dressed in his robes, with the leather armor and sword removed and his hood pushed back.

Sure enough, she knocked again. “Ezio, my son, I know you’re in there,” came her imperious voice through the door.

Was it knowledge or just a lucky guess? Teodora couldn’t have seen him enter, for the simple reason that it was days since he’d last used a door to do so. And he’d made certain that there were no secret peepholes into his room. However, he didn’t believe in lucky guesses, either.

“Very well. You leave me no choice, signore. I will count to ten. After that, I’m coming in. _Uno, due..._ ”

His eyebrows climbed. Would she do it?

“ _...tre, quattro, cinque...”_

 _Oh, hell._ “I’m here,” he said.

The door had neither lock nor latch. When it opened, Ezio saw Teodora standing behind it, her dark habit its usual strange combination of prim and daring. Her expression conveyed the full force of her displeasure at being compelled to climb to the attic.

She didn’t make a move to enter Ezio’s hiding hole. As soon as he straightened from his bow, she spoke.

“Follow me, my son,” she said and walked away without even a _prego_. Some might have called it a rather disrespectful attitude for a nun, had those ‘some’ not possessed at least a modicum of awareness that they might actually have deserved being so addressed.

For approximately the time it took from one eyeblink to another, Ezio considered disobeying. Then he snatched his unfinished letter from the table and, folding it in his pocket, hurried after her.

Was this somehow connected to his recent race through San Marco? Or that _bischero_ of a _capitano_ he’d brawled with and thrown into a channel in broad daylight?

“What is it, madonna?” he asked when he reached her.

She sniffed in displeasure and did not reply.

They descended to the second floor, where the girls provided their particular brand of spiritual comfort in so-called ‘confessionals’. Not many of the rooms were occupied at this early hour. Teodora went through a door, and upon following her, Ezio found himself in a _camera_ furnished with a steaming bath in a round wooden tub, a pile of clothes on the bed and a mute old Nubian waiting in a corner.

The Madame turned to assess him from head to toe. Her dark eyes took in his heavy stubble, an ugly bruise on his jaw (a memento of the _capitano’s_ swift right hook) and the robes he’d lived and slept in for the past several days. Her nose wrinkled. She clasped her hands over her stomach as if to keep them from gesturing in exasperation.

“You stink, my son,” she informed him. “I advise you to wash and change. Make yourself respectable.”

Ezio blinked and straightened. Despite the tone of her voice, this was not the verbal lashing he’d expected. _Respectable? What is not respectable about my robes?_ But he refrained from bickering with her.

“Can you tell me why, madonna?” he asked instead.

Her eyes met his. “With all due respect, signore, I’m giving you a chance not to look and smell like something the cat dragged up from a channel! Please, accept my offer and be quick about it. I will wait downstairs. If you make me wait too long, my patience about your continued residence in this establishment might wear very thin.”

After her thinly veiled threat, she turned and left without waiting for a reply.

The old Nubian washed Ezio’s hair and shaved him. He refrained from letting the man help with scrubbing, or the subsequent toweling. Once clean of more than a week’s worth of sweat and dirt, he went to the set of clothes laid for him on the bed.

After all these years, Ezio still held on to the pride that prevented him from wearing hand-me-downs or, God forbid, rags three times used. Unfortunately, that was most often all he could have afforded. As a consequence, there were exactly two outfits aside from his assassin’s robes that he owned. The one now presented for his convenience was the better of those two. Brown wool and a tunic of decent dark red silk — nothing as fine as he would have boasted as a young nobleman back in Firenze, but fashionable enough with its tight cut and sleeves slashed down the back.

However, turned out that while fashion had not changed much in three years, Ezio definitely had. After trying in vain to overcome the fact, the old Nubian backed away and gestured in apology. Ezio examined himself in dawning horror.

It was more than a year since he’d last used the clothes. Back then, they had been merely tight. By now, the doublet couldn’t be buttoned. The chausses cinched around his bottom and thighs, and he hadn’t even been able to pull the silk tunic past his shoulders. When he flexed his right arm in experiment, one of the silver buttons that closed the back of the slashed sleeve snapped loose around his bicep. Higher, the sleeves were laced ridiculously loose to the bodice, not because Ezio wanted to flaunt the mediocre quality of his linen, but because the pieces could not be pulled as close together as the tailor had intended. His barbaric shoulders simply no longer fit in, otherwise.

It would have been self-deception to try and tell himself that he was getting fat. He was becoming a monster, plain and simple. His assassin robes just needed to be fixed and replaced so often that he hadn’t noticed how much he’d grown.

The realization was mortifying, to say the least. _My father ran the roofs and did battle, too, and he wasn’t built like a draft ox!_ On the contrary, Giovanni had always appeared the perfect _cavaliere_ , his fitness the kind that could have resulted from sword fight lessons and horseback riding. But no one who laid eyes on Ezio for even a second was likely to make the mistake that he was just a banker’s son. He had to take a moment not to be overwhelmed by the knowledge that he’d never look like a civilized man again.

Well, at least his damned feet weren’t gaining size, based on how he succeeded in cramming them in his better pair of boots. However, meeting Teodora’s demand about looking respectable was going to be difficult. But what could he do? Send for the other set of clothes? They wouldn’t fit much better. And appearing down in his grimy gear would have been an insult. Ezio gestured for the servant to remove the laughable sleeves. Then he attached his sheathed stiletto in a belt and buckled it on his hips beneath what remained of the open doublet. With only the old Nubian making do for a mirror (and not a very loquacious one, at that) he could only start to imagine what he looked like.

Well, he was in a bordello. And it had recently been established that he wasn’t that different from a whore. So what did it matter if he resembled one? Muttering oaths under his breath, Ezio tied back his damp hair and marched out of the room.

Downstairs, Teodora was waiting near the staircase, conversing with a courier. Several pairs of eyes in the _sala_ turned toward the assassin. His mood darkened, and not just on account of his less than meticulous attire. He’d gotten so used to wearing his hood that he felt naked without it. Fortunately there weren’t that many strangers present. In fact, even the courtesans seemed less numerous than normal at this hour.

Teodora stared at him before leading him aside.

“ _Ma cosa!”_ She gestured at him. “You look like one of those terrible young men who hang around corners to harass girls and bait each other to dagger fights!”

“It is not my fault!” Coloring, Ezio tugged at the sides of his doublet to demonstrate the impossibility of pulling them together.

Teodora looked very much like she wanted to argue that the inability of his clothes to grow together with his muscles _was_ his fault. But she refrained from doing so, and just glanced piously at the ceiling. “ _Signore,_ give me strength! I suppose it does not matter, as long as you do not stink. _Vieni._ ”

“I demand to know what is going on,” Ezio whispered, keeping up with her as she took him back upstairs.

She huffed, clearly at the end of her patience. “You have lost your right to make demands of me, signore. Did you really have to go and steal the Barbarigo banner? _Affé!_ What were you thinking?”

Not much, was the answer closest to truth. The opportunity had presented itself, and with help from Rosa, Ezio had taken it. The thing had made quite the sight come morning, flapping from the clock of Torre dell’Orologio with a butterfly painted on the rich silk and gold cloth in reference to a certain pleasant part of female anatomy. _At least I didn’t scrawl the Assassin sign on it, like Rosa suggested._

“I’m tired of hiding!” Ezio muttered as they ascended the stairs. “And I wanted to send a message.”

“And that you did, my son. One saying ‘here we are, enemies, come at us’. This morning, one of those horrid wanted signs was posted on this very house. And I’ve already accosted some of the girls gossiping about what the heralds say — not all of them are clever enough to see through their lies.” Teodora sighed in exasperation. “However, I have learned my lesson. I will not waste more time trying to talk to you.”

“You won’t?” She’d already tried twice. Ezio had to admit he hadn’t been in the most receptive of moods, either time.

They approached a half-open door. From behind it, Ezio heard a chorus of female laughter. Suddenly he knew where so many of the courtesans had gone. Teodora stopped to give him a last displeased look, then shook her veiled head.

“ _Aimè,_ I am aware that, as a woman who is neither your mother nor the Holy Virgin, I am quite powerless to sway you. But I know someone who can,” she said and stepped through the door.

 _Oh, no,_ Ezio thought. But it was already too late to escape.

The chamber was furnished as lavishly as any private room in a palazzo. Its walls were painted with landscapes, rugs were scattered on its tiled floor, and despite the time being only mid-afternoon, a great fireplace had been lit to alleviate the early spring chill. Aside from an assortment of benches and chairs, a decadent canopy bed stood in an alcove, covered with a silk quilt and oriental pillows. More than half a dozen sumptuously dressed _cortigiani_ lounged on the bed, chairs and bench, and even on the floor, eating dried fruit and drinking watered wine. Since the door was already open, Ezio and Teodora were able to enter without alerting everyone inside to their arrival.

The women formed a beautiful sight, but Ezio paid them far less attention than might have been expected. The reason stood near one of the courtesans with his back to the door, tall and elegantly dressed, with a red half cape on his left shoulder.

 _Maledizione..!_ Ezio glanced at the door in panic.

For a crazy moment he wondered if Teodora knew, before realizing that it was impossible.

Some of the girls made as if to stand up in their presence, but Teodora raised a finger to her lips to keep them down and quiet. Apparently she wanted to hear what her guest was saying.

“...but the truth is, it is not in my hand, Antonia, because you’ve been in possession of it all along.”

The maestro picked something golden and glittering from behind a courtesan’s ear. Around the room, the women burst out in gasps and hand-clapping.

“How did you do that, messere?” Antonia exclaimed and accepted back her jewelry.

Leonardo merely chuckled and shrugged, and stepped back.

Ezio frowned, momentarily jarred out of his shock. Basic sleight of hand. Any pickpocket worth his salt knew such tricks. But where had _Leonardo_ learned the art? Beside Ezio, Teodora had been watching the little scene with an inward look. Now she sighed and stepped forward. _“Buon giorno, figli miei,”_ she said.

Leonardo turned around fast enough to make his shoulder cape whirl.

_Damn you, Teodora... if only you’d just decided to kick me out, instead!_

Ezio reminded himself he’d faced and vanquished some of the most dangerous men in Italy. Surely he could now stand his ground against one peace-loving, sweet-natured inventor? Yet somehow it seemed to take far more courage than taking on any of those beasts.

Then he realized that it was not Leonardo he was afraid of, but himself.

Forcing himself not to fidget or run away, Ezio watched the maestro stand up and bow, graceful as any courtier. Feeling like one of the mechanical men Leonardo was so fond of building, Ezio inclined his head in reply, to the extent suitable when greeting people of lower birth. If only his seething head had been made of wood, as well — or the damned thing that suddenly threatened to hack its way out of his chest in a rather painful manner.

“Thank you for being kind enough to wait, maestro,” Teodora said. “I must now get back to my duties. Come, my sisters. You have work to do as well. Or would you have men’s souls despair while you idle?”

She clapped her hands. Groaning in disappointment, her flock stood. Several of them insisted on giving Leonardo a peck on the cheek on their way out, and Ezio listened to their usual longing sighs and whispers as Teodora herded them out of the chamber.

Without another word, the Madame directed a cool glare at the assassin. Then she favored maestro da Vinci with a more favorable nod before closing the door behind her. Obviously some agreement existed between the two, one that involved leaving them alone in order not to cause embarrassment to anyone.

Suppressing a demented need to laugh at the irony, Ezio stood where he was and tried to control his dismay, sweating despite his recent bath.

o o o

Despite his occasional thick-headedness, the second son of Giovanni Auditore was not completely unable to judge his own actions. The reason of Sister Teodora’s failure to talk to him was not that he lacked the ability to understand that she was right. Quite the opposite. Ezio knew full well that sooner or later he’d have to stop acting like a dunce and face Leonardo again.

However, so far, the lucidity he needed to do so had failed to emerge. He’d ended up postponing his visit to the bottega until the mere idea of doing so had almost strangled him. He’d hoped that, with time, he’d forget the memory of Leonardo’s appalled expression, after he’d forced the man to... but of course the more he’d tried, the harder it had become to do so. By now, it was almost impossible not to think about it every waking moment, or to lie to himself that what he’d seen on Leonardo’s face had not been disgust.

Ezio crossed his arms and stared morosely at the wall, ashamed of his battered appearance. He waited for Leonardo to speak, wondering what part he was supposed to play in Teodora’s little play.

But Leonardo remained silent. At last Ezio glanced at him again.

He was used to seeing the maestro in home or working clothes, frumpy and happily covered with paint. But now Leonardo looked absolutely impeccable in dark green wool and creamy silk, cut and pleated close to his slender, strong figure. His beard had recently been trimmed, and every hair was in order under his tall red sugarloaf hat. However, no trace of his familiar smile could be seen. In its stead, his handsome face was burdened with a frown that made him appear older than usual. The fact that maestro da Vinci did not even bother trying to muster any of his usual light-heartedness made Ezio almost cringe.

Aside from the frown, Leonardo’s averted face remained carefully blank.

_Oh yes, he can act, all right. And now he’s trying to act as if the mere sight of me doesn’t insult him._

“What are you doing here?” Ezio asked at last, when the silence had grown worse than the effort required to speak.

Was he mistaken, or did Leonardo flinch? When he spoke, his usually so lively voice was completely flat.

“Teodora asked me to come. Should I leave?”

 _He’d do it, wouldn’t he? He’d walk out and never return._ But Ezio knew he had no right to such an easy way out.

“No,” he grunted. “But aren’t you busy?”

Leonardo’s reply sounded tense to the point of reluctance. “I have set my duties aside out of Teodora’s request. I believe she is under the impression that I can talk sense into you. I could not think of a way to refuse, or to explain why this meeting would be difficult, without revealing... things that are not mine to reveal.”

 _So, he really is here only because Teodora asked._ Ezio looked away again. _Well, I didn’t really deserve more, did I?_

“Go ahead, then,” he muttered, his arms still folded across his chest. _Get it over with._ If anyone could invent an elegant way to end six years of friendship, it had to be Leonardo.

When the maestro spoke again, the small hitches in his voice were enough to tell Ezio how unpleasant it was for him to do so.

“I used the word ‘impression’ on purpose. Namely, to convey the idea that I very much doubt I can sway you one way or the other. But please, Ezio... be careful. People are talking. I’ve seen the posters, and I meet some of the highest _clarissimi_ and speak with them. I beseech you, do not let their opinion shift too far against you! Venezia is such a small place, and I worry for your —”

Suddenly Leonardo fell back into silence.

Ezio looked again. Leonardo was pinching the bridge of his nose, his mouth set in a tight line.

“ _Mi dispiace,”_ he said, then, his voice low. “I promised myself I would not lecture you.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure you have good reasons for everything you do.”

The words only made it agonizingly clear to Ezio that the opposite was true.

He’d had ten days to think about his reaction — of all his reactions, in fact. Not just about the miserable way he’d behaved, but its motivations, and their utter disingenuity. He’d thought of the way he’d always found Leonardo’s appearance a bit too pleasing for a man. And how, time and again, he’d tried to tempt Leonardo to share a girl with him, or at least to watch. Had he honestly believed that his reasons to do so had been innocent? Rather laughable, in the light of what he now knew.

For what, out of all that he’d ever done or felt about Leonardo, had ever been anything but a lie or misunderstanding or a fabrication, even to himself?

To Ezio’s surprise, now that he could no longer lie to himself, he cared less about his honor than he might have expected. He was a murderer and a thief. What was a bit of sodomy added to the ever growing list of his sins? No, it wasn’t his honor that had prevented him from going back to Leonardo. It was the memory of the horror on Leonardo’s face, and knowing that he deserved every bit of resentment he’d seen on it. _No wonder he can’t stand to look at me. How many times did he tell me of his lofty ideals? And I made him drag them all through mud, without even knowing why._

Well, now he knew. He’d known it for days. He knew why it was so damned difficult to even look at Leonardo. He knew what the roar in his head was, and he knew the reason for the sudden pain in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

Not that any of it mattered, any more. It might have... months or maybe just weeks ago. But now it was too late.

He forced his mouth to work. It had somehow turned into an ash tray.

“Why did you come, then?” he managed to ask. _Just say it and let me out of my misery, dammit._

The sound of Leonardo’s boots, now. When he spoke, Ezio could tell that he was standing somewhere in the vicinity of the window, facing away from the room. “To do something that will most likely take care of both Teodora’s problem and mine,” he replied.

“Which is?”

“To apologize.”

Ezio blinked.

Well... Leonardo was not always the most straightforward of speakers. Maybe he was just making his way to the inevitable in his usual roundabout way?

“For what?” he asked into the stretching silence when it felt like he was expected to speak.

It took a moment for Leonardo to reply. “For what I did, obviously.”

Slowly Ezio raised his eyes toward Leonardo. For the first time he really looked at the man.

Leonardo was indeed standing near the window, surrounded by the bright afternoon light coming from between the curtains, half turned away, hands behind his back and jaw set. From what Ezio could see, his face was pale, but determined.

“What the _diavolo_ for?”

Leonardo grew stiff enough to use as a floorboard. “Please, Ezio. Afford me the courtesy of not pretending that you do not know what I speak of. You are a proud man, and I’m not foolish enough to expect you to forgive me. But I hope you will at least allow me to convey my honest feeling of regret. Clearly, going by the way you have acted ever since... well, everyone can tell that you’re not behaving like yourself.” Leonardo rubbed at his forehead, searching for words with what seemed unusual difficulty. “What I’m trying to say is that you should not put yourself in danger just because I have upset you.”

Ezio’s ability to comprehend the situation had just been stabbed in the back and dumped in a channel to drown and bleed to death.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

“Oh, for all that... you really want me to say it out loud?” Leonardo tugged at the tight collar of his tunic. When more words came, they struggled their way out of his throat, clearly no longer just difficult, but painful to give voice to.

“Very well. What I did... forcing you to submit like that... knowing my past as you profess, you understand that I, of all people, should have been able to control myself! I was intoxicated, rather abominably so, but that is not nearly enough to excuse my actions, even if to some extent it explains my lowered inhibitions. I have had these feelings for you for such a long time, and the way you in your innocence kept teasing me, I couldn’t — not even a saint could — _Madonna..!_ I repeat, I cannot yet ask for your forgiveness, but I would have you know that I am not incapable of remorse. If you ever find it in yourself to do so, I would ask you to —”

The things coming out of Leonardo’s mouth were made up of words. They sounded like speech. But they made no sense whatsoever. _“Porco Dio,”_ Ezio groaned, reeling from the onslaught of absurdity.

The force of the oath — so unseemly it would have to be atoned for in a confession — was enough to choke Leonardo mid-sentence. He swayed, then coughed against his fist, and concluded his apology with what sounded like hard-won dignity.

“I hope you can forgive me, some day,” he said. “I cannot bear the thought that you would hate me forever.”

For a long while, Ezio just stared, struck dumb.

Then he walked to a little table near the bed.

Water, washcloth and other accessories had been placed on the _credenza_ , should a patron care about his hygiene. Ezio took a piece of linen from a neat pile and, making his way to a certain spot at the painted wall and finding the peephole he knew to be there, stuffed the piece of cloth as tight within it as he could.

It was impossible to tell for certain whether anyone had been spying on them. But now that Ezio’s ability to think had suddenly been restored to some extent, he wasn’t going to take chances. After taking care of their privacy, he turned back toward Leonardo, who had been watching his administrations from across the room with a surprised look.

“Now,” Ezio said.

Leonardo looked away again, and made a chagrined gesture. “I know we cannot remain friends, but —”

“I agree,” Ezio said. “We cannot.”

Leonardo blinked. “Please believe me when I say that I will always keep my oath to your mother. I would not dream of breaking it. That is all I have to say.” He fell silent and waited, his face white and his head held high, as if prepared to have it placed on a block and neatly chopped off any moment.

After another long silence, Ezio gazed at the ceiling and muttered under his breath.

He could have laughed, and perhaps would have done so, had it not appeared a bit too insane for his vanity to bear.

Of all the self-centered idiots in this world, surely he had to be the greatest. Had he really thought that Leonardo — Leonardo, who gave even Templars the benefit of doubt, and with infuriating consistency tried to find redeeming qualities in the worst sort of scum (a category of people from which Ezio could not with a clear conscience exclude himself)... had he really, truly believed that _Leonardo_ would blame _him_ for anything? Why had he been unable to see how laughable the idea was?

And while flagellating himself with his precious self-pity, he’d failed to notice that he was committing an even worse crime than the one of which he’d now unexpectedly been acquitted. For how many times had he proclaimed that he’d rather stab himself than hurt Leonardo? Yet somehow that was exactly what he’d ended up doing. And because of what? Injured pride?

Fear?

Leonardo was right. He _was_ a child.

Releasing a breath he felt like he’d been holding forever, Ezio lowered his eyes back toward the other man.

Finally he recognized the expression on Leonardo’s pale, grim face for what it was. Maybe if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his selfish remorse, he would have seen it earlier. It wasn’t disgust that made Leonardo unable to smile. It was self-reproach. And in all probability, it was that very same sentiment which had been reflected in the look of dismay he’d given Ezio after the incident at the bottega. It was just Ezio’s egotistic idiocy that had made him unable to realize that the feeling wasn’t directed at him.

_What a mess._

_And all of it my fault. But how will I undo it? What can I say that would even begin to make any of this right?_

_Well, should I even say anything? After all... I have never been that good at talking._

When he set off across the room, Leonardo turned to fully face him and stepped back, as if expecting something violent to happen. Ezio leashed his annoyance. _That is how little he trusts me? After all the times I’ve told him how much he means to me?_ Upon making it near enough to touch, he reached up and held Leonardo’s bearded face between his hands. He felt the man stiffen, out of surprise, or wounded dignity perhaps — but the blue eyes reflected only confusion.

“I’ve said it before, and I’m saying it again,” Ezio growled softly. “Good God, but for a genius, you can certainly be an idiot!”

After seeing the expected flash of bewildered insult, he stood up on his toes and, gathering what little remained of his courage, kissed Leonardo on the mouth.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! As a reward for your patience, you will get two chapters today.
> 
> Also, check out [this incredible (and very nsfw) art](http://phoenike.tumblr.com/post/82228824188/https-twitter-com-izumocay-status-454007217692217344-pho) Izumo did for TLE. And in case you like it, consider taking a look at her [Ezio/OC doujinshi](http://izumoizumo.tumblr.com/post/82323573595/phoenike-izumoizumo-hi-so-i-made-a-new)?

Something was about to happen. Something that had nothing to do with the surprised stillness of Leonardo’s mouth, or the coarse velvet of his beard against Ezio’s own (for once) smooth-shaven jaw, or the warmth of his breath on Ezio’s skin.

Ezio shoved Leonardo away. He had just enough time to notice the astonishment on Leonardo’s face before he turned to see Sister Teodora halting at the open door.

Had she seen anything? And did it even matter? What with Ezio breathing hard and coloring with embarrassment and anger, and Leonardo looking like he’d been hit over the head with something heavy, they probably appeared about as guilty as two men could.

Teodora closed the door.

“So. This is how it is,” she said, her voice low with distaste.

 _Shit._ Ezio stole a look at Leonardo, who was turning alarmingly gray.

“Madonna...” He tried to think of an explanation. But no excuses would help if she’d seen the way he’d kissed Leonardo. Only a child would have mistaken it for brotherly affection.

“Forgive me for speaking so plainly,” Teodora continued, “but this is a house of God, and I expect everyone in it to behave accordingly. Ezio? Care to explain?”

“ _Prego.”_ Face darkening with humiliation, Ezio performed a reluctant little bow. He had no clue what to say. _Forgive me, madonna, I should not have slobbered all over my best friend in your abode?_ It _was_ a whorehouse, but Ezio had no idea how far Teodora’s understanding stretched. Going by her reaction, it might have been she found some sins more sinful than others.

For a while, the Madame remained silent, eyes unreadable under her veil. Then she shook her head in what seemed like disappointment.

“Men! I leave but for an instant, and come back to find you at each other’s throats. Is violence your solution to everything? Do you think that we can afford to quarrel amongst each other?”

_Quarrel?_

Ezio straightened and heard Leonardo take a sharp breath.

“Well?” Teodora insisted. “Do you have _anything_ to say?”

Perhaps on account of the many times he’d had to talk himself out of a scrape, Ezio recovered first.

“Forgive me, madonna,” he said and tried to scowl, to make it more convincing. “That _dannato_... sentimental idiot was getting on my nerves.”

Beside him, Leonardo muttered something under his breath.

Teodora glanced at the ceiling. “ _Cielo!_ To think that I asked the maestro to come and subject himself to this foolishness. Maestro Leonardo, are you in a hurry to return to work?”

It took a moment for Leonardo to give a strained answer. “Not at once, madonna. I have postponed my —”

She raised a finger. “ _Abbastanza_. Please, do me a favor and put an end to this. I will see to it that you are not disturbed. Ezio, I beg of you, do not appear before me until you can control yourself again. And try not to kill anyone or alarm the whole house while at it!”

She turned, white veil and the skirts of her black habit swaying. The door banged closed in the face of the men’s bows.

For a moment, they looked at each other in a stunned silence.

Then Leonardo staggered to sit on a coffer. _“Dio mio!_ ” he gasped and leaned his forehead on his hand.

Ezio, whose natural resilience had started to prevail, coughed and hid his grin. Perhaps one could not fault Leonardo for feeling a bit ill? Considering his trial, and all.

“I don’t think Teodora saw anything,” he said. “Do you?”

Leonardo shook his head against his hand.

Ezio continued. “And even if she did... I don’t think she’d say anything to anybody.”

Leonardo groaned and put the other hand to his face, too, as if he needed more support not to simply collapse on the floor.

“Come now, _amico_. Admit it, it was a bit funny.”

At that, Leonardo finally looked at Ezio above his hands, still pale and spooked.

The assassin turned out his palms as if in surrender. “ _Va bene_. I’m sorry that I called you a sentimental idiot. I was merely pretending.”

Leonardo frowned. Slowly he lowered his hands and looked away. Ezio had a feeling he had no longer been thinking of Teodora’s interruption.

“Ezio. I don’t understand. Why did you kiss me?”

The assassin shifted on his feet. He’d hoped that they could just skip this part of the conversation. Obviously, he’d been wrong. “Well, the same reason I came to see you last week.”

Leonardo watched him blankly. “Yes?”

Maybe the man had been stuck in one way of thinking for so long that it was almost impossible for him to change it? Ezio cleared his throat.

“I want to be more than friends with you.” It sounded ridiculous, put so plainly, but maybe ridiculously plain was what it would take to make Leonardo understand.

Mutely Leonardo pushed to his feet and paced a little, fingers toying with his tall hat and beard and the edge of his red shoulder cape. Finally they settled behind his back, grasping each other over the richly lined cloth.

“Why?” he asked at last, facing sideways.

“Because —”

But Ezio couldn’t say it. Not yet.

“What with all these questions? I know that you want it.” That, at least, was something he no longer doubted — not after the unapologetic fuck back at Leonardo’s bottega.

Hesitating, Leonardo turned to look at him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, as if he still didn’t trust they would not be overheard.

“In the six years that I’ve known you, Ezio, I’ve not seen you express such interest in a man. Not even once. And after I... violated you, the look on your face... I could see how much it disgusted you to have been taken. The way you ran away —” Leonardo shook his head. He attempted to continue, but failed and just shrugged, conveying a whole array of emotion in that simple gesture.

God, it had all gone so backwards. Ezio remembered all too well the way Leonardo himself had stumbled through his study and downstairs, as if he hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. Heat rushed into his face. Like before, thinking back to the night at the bottega flooded him with guilt-ridden arousal. His brow furrowed in makeshift anger.

“What about the way _you_ ran away? I thought you hated me,” he said.

Leonardo seemed startled. “But I only went to get... why in the name of God would I hate you?”

“Because I pushed you too far.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Leonardo said. “But are you trying to tell me that you believe you made me do something against my will?”

There it was, in its sordid simplicity. Ezio swallowed, and averted his face. “Well, you’ve made it clear enough that you would prefer me... not to do anything.”

In the ensuing silence, Ezio could hear gulls screech outside. Two floors down, wooden clogs pattered down the _calle_.

Then much closer footsteps of costly leather-soled boots could be heard, and warm fingers pressed to Ezio’s face. An ink-stained thumb brushed the scar that ran across his mouth to his chin, not far from the ugly mark left by the _capitano’s_ fist... both evidence of the mindless violence Leonardo despised.

For so long, the contact of that familiar hand, masculine and rough from toil, had conveyed just brotherly tenderness. Now Ezio could not feel its touch without remembering the pleasure it had given. Heat flowed through him, one that had little to do with anything platonic. It meant little whether Leonardo intended anything carnal with his caress.

“What I want and what I know to be right are two different things,” Leonardo said, soft and rueful.

“Why do you make it so complicated?”

“I’m not making it complicated. It just is. I told you. About your mother, and my debt of honor — and think of what just happened! I’m not sure you understand the danger —”

Ezio frowned. “You still think of me as that skinny little boy, don’t you? Well, I’m not seventeen anymore, Leonardo. I'm a killer, and very good at what I do. No one places themselves above me if I do not allow it. Not the law. Not even you. How can you even think that I — what makes you imagine you could force me to do anything I do not want?”

Leonardo held Ezio’s jaw firmly, as if he really were still a boy. “There are many kinds of violence!” he whispered, appalled. “This is just some kind of childish obsession, brought on by curiosity due to what you heard. How can you protect yourself, when you cannot even admit that I did something wrong — ”

Now starting to become angry in earnest, Ezio removed Leonardo’s hand from his face. Without thinking, he pushed it down to the front of his chausses. He felt a familiar tightening beneath Leonardo’s palm, and knew Leonardo felt it, too.

“Does this feel like I don’t want you?”

Leonardo blushed and snatched his hand away.

“Well, does it?”

“No,” the man admitted, grudgingly.

“I’ve hardly been able to think of anything but you. Not after I learned about... about what you are. I didn’t expect it to go that way, but it did and... and I can’t pretend we’re the same as before, Leonardo! I don’t want to.”

He could see something change in Leonardo’s eyes. Astonishment. And perhaps some kind of dawning comprehension.

“Ezio, I lost control of myself. I humiliated you and caused you unnecessary pain.”

“I wanted it, too! Or are you blind as well as an idiot?”

Leonardo’s eyes darkened.

No... he was not blind, and he was definitely not an idiot. Ezio knew that they were thinking of the same thing — of a certain table in Leonardo’s study, and what had happened on top of it.

“It was unforgivable,” Leonardo said, then. His voice was growing very husky. “If I was going to throw everything away, I should at least have tried not to shame myself. I haven’t been so clumsy since fifteen.”

 _Fifteen?!_ Ezio’s old idea of Leonardo’s youth as a sheltered, innocent and scholarly was shattered forever. _So that is where his self-assertion came from? How many men has he been with?!_

Ezio himself had only his feigned confidence to work with — and the instinct that told him to use the moment before it was gone.

He moved closer. “I disagree, but if you really think so, how about trying again? We have to stay here for a while.”

Leonardo went rigid... in the completely wrong manner.

“That may be so,” he said. “In each case, we need to talk. There’s so much I don’t understand. About how easily you accepted what Paola told you, for instance. I would have assumed that you, of all people, would find it disgusting, or at least consider it to —”

 _Fuck._ Ezio had forgotten about his lie.

He had a strong suspicion that he’d already guessed what Leonardo’s secret was — the one that Paola had refused to disclose. There was only one thing that could explain how Leonardo had known about the secret war, or his skills at sleight of hand, or his connections with so many Assassins — but Ezio wasn’t sure he could discuss it without revealing how atrociously he’d lied.

To be spared of doing so (and perhaps also because he really wanted to) he pushed up and kissed Leonardo again.

Leonardo made a muffled sound. He leaned toward Ezio like something attracted by the weight of earth — and then almost immediately tore himself away.

“No!” he gasped, stumbling back. “There is not even a latch on that door. Teodora —”

“As far as I’m concerned, she’s welcome to watch.” Ezio started shouldering his way out of his open doublet.

Leonardo raised a finger, as if to point out something. But it seemed he’d lost the ability to either speak or form a coherent thought. Ezio tossed away the doublet and started on the laces of his shirt collar.

“She said we won’t be bothered,” he continued, just because Leonardo looked so shocked.

Slowly Leonardo’s hand fell.

“D-doesn’t Teodora’s staff know how to wash clothes?” he asked, eyes falling toward the ridiculous fit of Ezio’s chausses, which were sewn closed down the middle in the new fashion.

“You mistake the problem, _amico_. It is not a matter of bad housekeeping. I just don’t fit in my clothes anymore.” Ezio pulled off his shirt.

He had a feeling he’d seen the look on Leonardo’s face, before — he’d just been oblivious to its true meaning. Unexpected arousal flushed through him. Maybe it was not all bad, to be built like a workhorse? He dropped the linen.

“Right,” Leonardo choked out, at last. “Yes. You have certainly grown.”

“Not seventeen anymore, eh, _fratello?”_ Ezio unbuckled the single wrist blade he’d hidden under the left sleeve of his shirt.

Leonardo made a visible effort to leash his stupefaction. Something proud flickered in his eyes. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

Ezio just tossed the codex blade away, smirked, and stood with hands on his hips, without either acknowledging or denying the words.

How many times had he undressed in front of Leonardo, to be patched up or have something fitted, or just to alleviate stifling summer heat? Was the habit as innocent as might have been assumed? It did not take suppressed lust or vanity to enjoy being admired, but Ezio already knew there was a lot he hadn’t admitted to himself about his relationship with maestro da Vinci.

As if in experiment, he lifted a hand to scratch the hairy curve of muscle close to his armpit. Leonardo blinked, muttered something, and promptly lost again the struggle not to gape.

 _Oh, fuck._ Who was Ezio kidding? He _was_ vain. Enough to start at once inventing ways to make Leonardo look even more agonized. He thought of the things whores did in front of him to make his blood boil, and ran a hand slowly across his chest, and from there downward, fingers spread over the trail of fuzz that extended all the way to his groin.

Sure enough, Leonardo seemed to forget how to breathe.

By the time Ezio pushed his hand over his belt, the expression on the maestro’s face had grown so drugged that it resembled his state back at the workshop, after guzzling God knew how much cheap _trebbiano_ to dull his sense of destructive perfectionism.

With boldness he did not in truth possess, Ezio grabbed himself through his clothes and stroked his hardening prick. It had to look truly obscene. The thought excited him more than it should have. Sure, the way women sometimes looked at him was a turn-on, as well — but it was hard to imagine putting on such a show for a woman. None of them had ever appeared as desperate or famished as Leonardo did now.

After a while, Ezio had to force himself to stop. It had all started as a joke, but now he realized he could easily have brought himself off while Leonardo watched.

“You like this?” he asked, voice rough with arousal.

He didn’t need to ask. The helpless, naked longing on Leonardo’s face told him everything he wanted to know. But even so, he waited, hand curled around the shape that strained against his clothes, and slowly Leonardo’s eyes climbed toward his, heating with defiance as well as lust.

“For heaven’s sake, _ragazzo._ You already like yourself far too much! You do not need my confessions.”

Ezio flashed a sideways grin and started opening his belt.

Maybe it was his turn to play the leader? It couldn’t be that different from taking a woman. Right..?

The buckle fell open with a metallic clink and hiss of leather.

Mimicking the way he’d seen _cortigiani_ do away with their clothes (if without the squirms and giggles), Ezio eased down the thick wool and linen from over his heavily rounded backside. His prick was already hard enough to point upward. Stroking one hand back to it, he grabbed it and gave it a slow rub that pushed a drop of precum from its tip.

Leonardo, who was now staring slack-mouthed, finally seemed to remember that he needed to breathe. In doing so, he inhaled something that wasn’t supposed to go into a human windpipe, and started coughing violently.

“ _Sta’ bene, amico?”_ Ezio muttered after a while.

Hacking away against his fist, Leonardo waved in acquiescence. He was struggling for breath so hard that his hat had fallen.

Ezio was starting to feel a bit silly, standing there with his breeches and chausses around his thighs and a hard cock in his hand.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second of today's updates.

He realized he had no idea how to continue.

He’d never had such problems with women. Well, not after the first year or two, anyhow. Eager to learn, he’d fumbled his way through the beginning, and soon found that he had something of a knack for it... or so the ladies’ growing interest in him had led him to believe. (Then again, everybody knew women were insatiable. As a man, Ezio should have been able to restrain himself. But if God intended sin to be avoided, why had he made it so enjoyable?)

Despite their strange ways, no _donna_ had ever terrified him. Not like Leonardo in all his familiarity did now. Ezio’s eyes wandered over his friend’s broad-shouldered figure. The idea of handling it in bed like he handled his women was laughable.

The hem of Leonardo’s tunic did not betray any of his reaction to the preceding little show. Apparently, he’d chosen more restrictive clothes, this time. Ezio swallowed. He had to decide what to do, not to lose the upper hand. What about going to his knees and..? He’d had more than enough girls pleasure him in such a manner to have an idea on how to go about it. And he was nothing if not up to a small challenge.

Well, maybe not so small, based on what he could remember.

However, he was running out of time. Leonardo had stopped coughing. In lack of better ideas, Ezio stroked himself, the other hand pushing into his breeches. Leonardo’s attention latched on the sight as though he’d been poisoned with the milk of the poppy again.

“You want to touch it?” Ezio asked.

He’d intended to tease, but to his horror, the words came out uncertain and hesitant. He blushed as Leonardo looked slowly back up.

“Ezio,” Leonardo said. An incredulous expression replaced some of his debilitating lust. “Are you _shy?_ ”

“No!” Ezio croaked, and blushed more.

Even an idiot could have seen through that lie.

For a while longer, Leonardo just continued to stare. Then a smile started sneaking upon his face. He straightened and smoothed down the hair unsettled by his fit, and tried to control his growing hilarity.

“Don’t laugh, _coglione..!_ ” Ezio all but shoved his prick back into his linen breeches.

Leonardo pressed a hand to his heart, fully in possession of his faculties again. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said solemnly, even as Ezio saw the way his eyes glinted and knew that inside, the man was sniggering his ass off. “You do not need to act for me, _caro_.”

The endearment was as thoroughly confounding as the situation itself.

“I’m not acting! I — I like the way you look at me.” _Oh God, I’m going to kill myself._

“I see. That is good, since I quite enjoy looking at you.” Leonardo stepped closer.

Ezio’s heart almost stopped. But the maestro just started pacing around him, almost as if admiring a piece of art, or maybe a well-bred horse.

“You look like one of those bronzes which depict Roman gladiators. Or an angel of war. Any artist would give a finger for a chance to immortalize something such as this.”

An angel? Hardly. There was nothing otherworldly about how Ezio reacted under Leonardo’s attention. Even more blood gathered in his face. Stifling a curse, he held up his loosely hanging breeches with one hand, trying in vain to cover how embarrassingly hard he was growing.

“Leonardo. _Prego_.”

The man came face to face with him again, and shook his head. “It’s not safe.”

“When will it be?”

“Ezio, you surprise me. Protagoras himself would be proud of such sophistry.”

“You want me to beg?” Ezio blurted. “ _Bene,_ I can beg. I’m going crazy. The more I try to forget what you did, the more I think about it. You have no idea how many times I’ve given up, already, alone, remembering... fingers up my own —”

Leonardo’s eyes widened. He stepped closer and pressed a hand to Ezio’s mouth. “Stop it!” he whispered.

Had it not sounded so much like _please, for the love of God, continue,_ Ezio might even have obeyed.

 _I almost have him. All he needs is a little push._ Ezio’s hands trembled as he started unfastening the strap that held the cape on Leonardo’s shoulder.

Leonardo’s mouth parted as if to say something. But nothing came out.

Somehow Ezio succeeded in undoing the cape. With a hiss, it slid to their feet. He reached behind Leonardo’s neck — a little clumsily because Leonardo was still holding a hand to his mouth — and started picking at the small buttons under Leonardo’s hair. They were now standing so close that his hard-on, barely caught under linen, was pressed to Leonardo’s clothes.

Leonardo’s breath was becoming very uneven.

One of the buttons opened. Ezio fumbled for the next.

Leonardo licked his lower lip. “You really want it..?” he muttered, eyes half closed. “You want me to do it again? You want me to show you how I..?”

 _Show me what?_ But it could hardly refer to anything untrue. Ezio nodded. His hands were now shaking so bad the cursed button might as well have been an eel.

For a moment Leonardo looked almost stricken. Then he nodded, and his hand left Ezio’s mouth. “Very well. God forgive me,” he whispered and, pushing his fingers into Ezio’s hair, bent down to kiss him.

Only a few heated seconds into it, Ezio knew it was happening again.

Leonardo was taking the lead. Worse, he was allowing it — and judging by the way his treacherous _mazza_ practically leaped, it enjoyed the predicament. His groping behind Leonardo’s neck turned into holding on as if to keep from drowning.

At least there was no uncertainty whether Leonardo wanted it, too. Not with the way he made Ezio’s head tilt with the force of his kiss, or how his hands ran down Ezio’s back until one of them made its way to his bare bottom. With unexpected single-mindedness, his fingers pushed between Ezio’s thighs and forced his weight up and forward on his toes, pressing him tightly against Leonardo’s tall frame.

 _Shit. It wasn’t just the wine, the last time. He really_ is _like this?_

The way Leonardo’s hot tongue burrowed in his mouth, as if imitating an even more intimate intrusion, seemed to provide its own kind of answer.

Teetering on his feet, Ezio was turned and guided backwards until the foot of the bed was behind his knees. A small push was enough to send him sprawling on it. Like a goddamn altar boy, he clutched his breeches to his groin and crawled back on the silk bed cover without much grace.

Leonardo remained standing where he was. With the same poise and dexterity Ezio had seen him handle his brushes, he undid the belt on top of his tunic and tossed it away. Eyes not wavering from Ezio, he picked open the buttons at the back of his neck and pulled the tunic over his head, causing fair hair to tumble across his face. Beneath, a tight, green doublet, laced from throat to groin, hugged his straight shoulders and tapering waist.

Leonardo allowed the tunic to fall.

“Take them off,” he said. Ezio’s jaw nearly fell at the no-nonsense tone of his voice.

“W-what?”

Leonardo nodded toward his boots and rumpled legwear. “Your clothes. Everything.”

Ezio colored. Eyes flashing under hanging hair and dark brows, he opened his mouth to object, like a man should, let alone a noble one. _You domineering piece of..! What has got into you?_ But the words refused to come. The change in Leonardo was incomprehensible. Ezio shook his head, bewildered. His defiance faltered as Leonardo declined to even acknowledge it. Nothing in the man’s eyes suggested he was joking.

Uncertain and aroused, Ezio reached for his feet.

Never had a simple undressing felt so damned difficult, or so laden with meaning. By the time he’d managed to peel the last thread of cloth from his skin, he was sweating freely.

Leonardo’s expression had barely changed.

Then Leonardo crouched on the bed. _Fuck._ Ezio started to retreat, before realizing it was ridiculous. Leonardo’s behavior was an act. Right? (Had he _asked_ for it? Or at least given the impression of doing so..?) Leonardo was the gentlest man on earth, he wasn’t going to _eat_ Ezio, the way his eyes suddenly seemed to suggest —

Leonardo’s gaze dropped to where Ezio’s cock lay fully hard against his groin. Ezio’s breath hitched.

Excruciatingly slow, Leonardo leaned forward until his soft hair tickled Ezio’s skin. He licked a spot on the assassin’s heaving chest, another on his stomach.

Ezio could only stare in disbelief as, using only his tongue and mouth, Leonardo picked up his cock and with what was in the circumstances a completely unnecessary level of skill, swallowed it to the hilt.

Ezio bucked like a horse.

 _Sweet Mother of God._ The surprise and sudden wet, hot pressure were too much. He was going to come. He was going to squirt down Leonardo’s throat, not in minutes but in fucking _seconds,_ and nothing could stop it from happening. It would be the most embarrassing thing that had happened to him since he was twelve and jizzed himself when being leaned on by a pretty housemaid.

Leonardo pulled away and grabbed his prick. Ezio wasn’t sure what he did (it hurt like the devil, if only for a second), but the rush of his impending release faded, leaving his cock slick and throbbing, his whole body heaving and his mind spinning so bad he thought he might pass out.

He was hardly able to believe any of it.

Leonardo was better at it than the most skilled whores he’d been with.

Such a degree of sophistication could not be explained by sheer talent or scientific familiarity with the human body. For some inconceivable, unaccountable reason, Leonardo knew very, very well what he was doing. And it had nothing to do with the knowledge one could gain by cutting up lifeless corpses in an icy basement.

Leonardo looked up from between Ezio’s thighs. His expression made Ezio shiver. _Too much._ He closed his eyes and tried to wade through the pulsing muck in his brain. But Leonardo had no intention of letting him regain his wits. Making his way up Ezio like a snake — the naked, slithering friction of his skin a caress in itself — he pushed Ezio to the bed, pinned him down and kissed him.

Leonardo was heavy. Very heavy. Ezio felt so warm he feared he might fall straight into the bowels of earth.

“Still want it?” Leonardo murmured against his mouth.

There came a point where a man just had to admit defeat. Ezio nodded, pathetically eager.

“Then roll over,” Leonardo said, his voice more gruff than Ezio had ever heard it.

This time, he simply obeyed.

Unceremoniously, he found his shoulders and face shoved into quilted silk and his arse sticking in the air. Ezio could only imagine how it looked. Not like a courtesan’s soft, plucked nether parts at all, that was for certain. “ _Madonna_ ,” Leonardo muttered behind him, hands on his ass. Face burning, Ezio bit his teeth against mortified blasphemy.

_Here it comes._

The mattress shifted under Leonardo’s weight. Then something hot and wet that was definitely not a cock ran up Ezio’s balls and — unbelievably — to where no woman’s mouth had ever touched.

An unexpected stab of pleasure made him clench and cough up that stifled curse.

It was so unseemly, so filthy and depraved — but most of all, it was impossible to reconcile with his immaculate vision of maestro da Vinci. There was nothing innocent or kind about the tongue that teased him and eventually forced its way into him. His mind reeled in disbelief and shock. For a moment he was convinced he’d spill on the bed without being touched.

Instead, he started pleading for something else altogether, voice muffled against the wet spot he’d drooled in the quilt.

The unbearable, blissful torment stopped, leaving behind a last sting of pleasure that made him twitch.

“What?” The word was hot and rough against his arse.

“Please,” Ezio rasped more loudly, which meant it could at least be heard. “I want to see you.”

The mattress shifted again. For a moment Ezio was certain that the answer would be no.

“If you wish,” Leonardo said, then.

Was there just a little hesitation to that voice, now? Ezio twisted to his back, trying to control his breath and abominable shaking.

Leonardo was kneeling at the foot of the mattress, looking slightly lost, for some reason. His hair curled wildly around and across his face and down to his shoulders, a sheen of sweat making some of it stick to flushed skin. His mouth was wet and his gaze blurred, but his eyes did not waver from Ezio’s face, nor did his fingers tremble as he pulled the laces of his doublet free from under his collar and started undoing them with swift tugs. It looked like something rehearsed, the way he got rid of the skin-tight garment and then his shirt and unlaced his breeches and hose — as if were a goddamn dance. The golden paleness of his skin was as exquisitely beautiful as any woman’s Ezio had ever seen, a bewildering contrast to his keen masculinity.

Ezio’s tongue felt like dry clay in his mouth when Leonardo freed himself.

That _is what he’s been hiding in his breeches all these years?_

Despite its hardness, the thing pointed slightly downward, maybe because of its sheer weight. Ezio had never considered that a cock could be pretty. But it was also terrifying, due to its size, like some unassuming but dangerous beast, and... he was making far too much of this, wasn’t he?

_I’m doomed._

“Is something wrong?” Leonardo asked thickly, long fingers bent around his thick shaft.

To Ezio’s surprise, he found his tongue. “No! I’m just... well, it’s so big and... pink and... _perbacco._ You’re hung like a _maledetto cavallo._ ”

As if in response to his words, the thing flexed and released a long thread of precum. Ezio felt dizzy.

“Ezio, listen. You have to tell me now if you don’t want me to do something. I don’t know if I will be able to control myself, all the way.”

“I don’t want you to control yourself. I want you to do everything you want.”

“ _Oddio.”_ But the sudden uncertainty lingered, even as Ezio could tell from the way Leonardo kept leaking slick that he had to be fighting an urge to just lean over and shove it in, like the last time.

“What _do_ you want?” Ezio asked.

Leonardo’s ominous expression thrilled him. “Should I tell you?”

“Yes..!”

Leonardo nodded and started speaking, his voice so hoarse it was little more than a whisper.

Ezio’s ears burned. He could barely comprehend what he was hearing. He hadn’t known Leonardo was even aware of such things, let alone capable of saying them. But here he was, listening with his jaw slack as the man described acts that in their brutal, matter-of-fact lewdness surpassed almost everything of what Ezio had ever done — and he knew, he just knew that all of it sprung from experience rather than imagination.

_I’m going to kill every man he’s ever been with. After thanking them._

“— but right now, I just really want to fuck you,” Leonardo concluded.

“ _Bene,”_ Ezio choked out. “Let’s start from that and work our way through the rest.”

Leonardo blinked. Looking like he didn’t quite believe any of it to be real, he glanced down at his hand and what it had been slowly stroking while he spoke. Then he left the bed and walked to the well-stocked _credenza,_ to search through the objects on it and lift one of them to read the label.

Having found what he was looking for, Leonardo returned to the bed and settled between Ezio’s splayed legs. He leaned down for another kiss, and Ezio went tense as a hand made its way up inside his thigh, its warmth a contrast to something cold in it.

“Relax, or it will hurt more.” Leonardo’s breath was ragged.

Ezio nodded, and without being told to do so, slung his legs around Leonardo’s waist.

He told himself he would take it like a man. But when two slicked-up fingers pushed inside him, he grunted and winced.

It was so different from the first time. Now he knew what was about to happen, and there was no raw sentiment to wipe away the weirdness of it like in the bottega. Fully sober and conscious of what he was doing, he was offering himself to be fucked by his best friend. And not only offering.

“Just do it already..!”

“Are you in a hurry somewhere?” He looked up to see a ghost of a smile on Leonardo’s flushed face. Almost as if the act was cracking, just a bit. The fingers pulled out and Ezio sensed something nimble happen between them. Then he heard the crackle of skin sliding against skin with a lot of slick in between.

Leonardo bit his bottom lip. “What if I split you in h-half?”

“ _Cretino,”_ Ezio muttered and pulled the fool to him, ankles crossed between Leonardo’s shoulder blades. “If you don’t do it, you miserable hack, I swear I’ll tell everybody that you steal all your ideas from — oh _faccia da culo..!_ ”

His hands struck the bed, grasping for a hold.

“ _Cazzarola!”_

“Eloquent,” Leonardo gasped, every muscle tense with the effort of either pushing forward or holding back. Somehow, after inching through the opening, he managed to drive the rest of his way in with what seemed like one long, slow slide.

It wasn’t the blinding sword-thrust of the first time, but it wasn’t exactly painless, either. Ezio wondered if it _could_ be painless, what with the way Leonardo was endowed.

He was _full._ There was no other way to describe it. And not just between his legs. His stupid heart was being filled, too, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it, or to stop Leonardo from touching parts of him he’d never before wanted to be touched.

“God,” Leonardo panted against his neck. “Mistake. Too tight.”

Ezio flexed his bottom muscles. Leonardo spasmed against him.

“ _Merda!_ Don’t do that! All that c-climbing and... jumping... you have no idea. You’ll make me come.”

“Isn’t that the idea?”

“ _Sfacciato..!”_

The horny whisper made something tighten in Ezio’s chest.

_God. I’m so fucked. In more ways than one._

A hand fisted in his hair. Perhaps to wipe the smug smirk off his face, Leonardo kissed him again. And at last, as if in punishment — or maybe just reaching the limits of his obviously very well developed self-restraint — Leonardo pulled back a little and snapped forward again, so hard that, had there not been a tongue in his throat, Ezio might have cursed.

This time the couple of tears that eventually escaped him had nothing to do with pain.

Almost seven years ago, he’d appeared on the threshold of Leonardo’s life, a lost boy whose world had been shattered. And Leonardo had taken him in and for years risked everything for him and loved him in secret without ever complaining or turning his back or showing him anything except a smiling face and unrelenting kindness. And despite knowing that he’d done nothing to deserve it, Ezio wasn’t sure he could live without it — or without what Leonardo was doing to him, now.

“I love you,” he stammered, voice breaking with more than the way he was being pounded into the mattress.

And somehow in the middle of his frantic lust Leonardo seemed to hear it and know that it meant something completely different than the dozens of times Ezio had said it before. He stopped what he was doing, shoulders heaving, hair hanging against the crook of Ezio’s neck.

Then he lifted his head to bring their mouths together, tongue and teeth and soul and all that was good and bad in them. And after just a few more thrusts and perfectly timed strokes of a familiar paint-stained hand, Ezio started coming.

And no matter how little he deserved it — or how wrong it would all go only in a few short moments — for a while, everything was exactly as he needed it to be.


	19. Chapter 19

Everything felt a bit surreal. The reason went beyond how Ezio’s brain seemed to have been turned into porridge. Staring at the ceiling did little to alleviate his sense of unreality, or his need to roll over and puke.

“You think we should leave?” he muttered.

Rough with lingering drowsiness, the words rumbled through him, making him too conscious of his stings and aches. Beard burn and bruises, and a deep soreness in his...

They’d pissed and puked in the same gutter, for God’s sake. He’d bawled against Leonardo’s shoulder, and bragged to him about his trysts with women, often in shameless detail. And then there were all the countless smaller things — scratching himself in delicate places and breaking wind and telling jokes filthy enough to make a fishwife blush and just generally being a complete and utter pig, and — _god dammit, Ezio, stop it._

None of those things, however, were the reason why he felt so queasy.

What the fuck had possessed him to say it?

He’d _never_ said it to anyone. Not even Cristina, back when he’d still been young and innocent enough to mistake passing post-coital euphoria for love.

“Leonardo?”

At last, the man stirred. His long limbs tangled with Ezio’s heavier ones.

“That was —” God, he’d had no idea Leonardo could sound so absolutely depraved. “I give up. I don’t care if I go to the gallows or to hell. _Madonna._ ” Leonardo’s sinful, wide mouth pressed to his ear. “And about what you said —”

Promptly, he panicked.

“ _Ehi..!_ I say stupid _merda_ in bed, _amico_. It doesn’t mean anything.”

The ensuing silence was nothing short of excruciating.

Wordlessly Leonardo rolled onto his back. The bed wasn’t nearly big enough for them to lie side by side in it without touching, but even so, Ezio could feel the distance between them grow.

At last, Leonardo spoke in an entirely different tone than his earlier heated whisper.

“So Italy is full of poor, deluded women who believe that you love them?”

“What? No! What happened was...” _Indescribable, unbelievable..._ “Well, I got a bit more _pazzo_ in the head than usual.”

“I assume I should take that as a compliment?” It didn’t sound like Leonardo was taking it as a compliment at all.

“Well, you really knew what you were doing, eh, _amico?_ ”

It was supposed to be a joke. But somewhere on their way from Ezio’s brain to his mouth the words transformed into something entirely different, instead.

Another painful silence followed.

He wasn’t entirely callous, and realized he’d insulted Leonardo, with his tone if not the words. But before he could apologize, Leonardo had already groaned.

“I knew it. I knew you were lying when you said you’re fine with it!”

_Fine with what?_

Suddenly Ezio did not feel like apologizing at all.

He pushed up to sit on the edge of the mattress. “You mean your past lovers? God, I want to stab every fucking _figlio di puttana!_ ”

Instead of any of the reactions Ezio might have expected, Leonardo merely snorted. When Ezio looked over his shoulder, the man was stretching out in his half-naked, irrepressible glory, to lie on the bed with fingers laced behind his head.

“Well, that would be a bloodbath,” Leonardo stated rather drily toward the ceiling.

Ezio stood up and made for the windows, shaky legs be damned. He was vaguely aware that the situation wasn’t developing particularly well, but he couldn’t help it. Obviously, something had broken in his ability to react like a sane human being to anything Leonardo said or did.

Behind him, the silk quilt rustled as Leonardo sat up as well.

“Ezio. I cannot believe this. You’re jealous? You, of all people?”

“I’m not jealous!” Ezio snatched his shirt from the floor. Shoving his hands through the sleeves, he yanked it over his head and bare backside so hard that a few stitches ripped in the shoulder.

“Clearly,” Leonardo muttered. “How adorable.”

Ezio crossed his arms, slightly more confident with some linen between his sore ass and Leonardo’s far too discerning gaze. “I simply dislike the thought of being only —” he realized that what he was about to say was incredibly insulting and patently untrue. “Well, just don’t make this into more than it is.”

“Oh, believe me, I won’t.” There was more rustling and the mattress groaned as Leonardo moved on it as if to put on his clothes. “May I say, it is a relief to hear that you’re not foolish enough to succumb to such sentiment. Jealousy does not suit you at all. In fact, someone who knows of your many, many adventures with women might suggest that, of the two of us, it would make more sense for _me_ to be jealous. I am not, for the record — thankfully, all things considered — but like we already established, neither are you, and we’re speaking on a purely hypothetical level.”

Ezio turned to look at Leonardo, nearly gaping.

Leonardo had managed to do up his breeches and lace his hose to his belt and now sat with his back against the headboard, one booted leg on top of the other, measuring Ezio with the sort of concerned curiosity he might have afforded to a strangely behaving animal. Aside from his tousled hair and lack of shirt or coat, he appeared perfectly collected. Ezio was very much afraid that the same did not apply to his scraped and bruised appearance.

“Why in the face of _cazzo_ would you feel jealous about my women?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

Leonardo’s eyebrows climbed. “Why, do you think they are somehow different from my past companions?”

“Of course they are! I just fuck them. Most of them are only whores, anyway.”

The ensuing silence lasted so long that Ezio would have realized he’d said something stupid even without Leonardo staring at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head.

Eventually he turned toward the window, coloring.

“Only whores?” Leonardo’s tone had gone unreadable. “Only whores? And you merely fuck them? As opposed to me having done... what?”

“Well... I’m not like you! I have this — this need I have to take care of.” Ezio gestured. “But you — I know you. Everything means too _dannato_ much to you. You can’t even paint anybody without falling a little in love with them!”

“What? That doesn’t make any —”

Mid-sentence, Leonardo suddenly fell silent.

Ezio had a feeling he’d just blundered spectacularly. He just hadn’t the faintest idea how.

“ _Asino,”_ he heard Leonardo mutter.

“What? It’s true!” Ezio continued to speak to the window, feeling himself sink deeper even as he flailed. “And — and you lied to me! For years! Making me believe you were incapable of rutting. How foolish do you think that makes me feel?”

“Oh, Ezio.” Leonardo chuckled. “Well, at least I can stop feeling ashamed for letting myself get carried away and make such a _pasticcio_ of it.”

Ezio was barely listening. A terrible possibility had occurred to him. “Are you entertaining lovers even now?”

“You treacherous little monkey,” Leonardo said and, by the sound of it, got up and started toward him.

Bewildered and angry, Ezio allowed Leonardo to turn him by the shoulders and smile down to him, half affectionate, half rueful.

“So. _Ragazzo._ Do you want to know how many... lovers... I’ve had?” he asked, his voice gone soft and teasing.

 _No!_ “Yes,” Ezio exhaled.

Leonardo leaned in to whisper. “Hundreds.”

Ezio stepped back, shaking off Leonardo’s grip.

“It’s true,” Leonardo said and straightened, still smiling. “I was the most beautiful piece of _culo_ in Firenze, and the greatest fuck. Even men who did not usually care for such perversions wanted to try me.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“No?” Leonardo’s eyes widened in mock disbelief. “You truly suspect I might be lying? At some point, I had to start choosing, you know. I simply did not have the time or stamina to service everyone who desired me.”

Ezio stared with his mouth open.

Leonardo grinned, unabashed, and continued, looking quite pleased with himself.

“Word spreads, you see. I was famous for my skills with the _bocca_ and the _cazzo_ and the _culo_. Although I’m the first one to confess that I never enjoyed playing the part of the girl that much. I’ve always preferred to be the one to do the fucking — as you might have noticed. There is something very satisfying about having a strong, manly man submit to one’s every whim.”

Maybe he was being tormented by a devil that had taken the form of his kind, soft-spoken friend? It even used the same slightly amused tone of voice which Leonardo often employed, the one that made it impossible to tell whether he was being serious. For once, however, Ezio was painfully certain of Leonardo’s honesty.

 _Why is he doing this to me?_ Of course Leonardo had made fun at his expense before, once or twice — but he’d never been cruel. (Well, perhaps just a little bit cruel, sometimes... but always without true malice.)

“I knew how to make men want it. To want my _cazzo_ in their arse. There is a sort of... art to it, if you will.”

Ezio was starting to feel light-headed. “You,” he gasped. “You were so... horny that you would fuck hundreds of men... without thought of consequence... without shame?”

Leonardo’s brows lifted. His eyes looked very blue and innocent. “Why, did you think I was a saint?”

_Yes! Yes, I did._

“No,” Ezio lied, choking. “But I had no idea that you were such a w-whore, either.”

At that, Leonardo blinked. His smile faded to a degree.

“Oh, Ezio. You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

That moment, Ezio knew with crushing certainty that his confession had been true. No way could Leonardo’s words have hurt him like this, otherwise.

“What is there to know? Why are you saying such things?”

“Oh, _scimmietta._ ” Leonardo shook his head. His smile had died to a mere hint of ironic amusement. He folded his arms across his bare chest. “You lied to me, didn’t you? About Paola having told you anything. I should never have doubted her loyalty.”

Admitting it seemed almost meaningless, now. “What does that have to do with anything? I already figured it out, anyhow. The evidence is all there, I just needed to pay attention.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s obvious. You’re in the Brotherhood, no?”

This time, it was Leonardo’s turn to step back and look surprised. His hands fell to his sides.

“What?”

“Stop pretending! What else can explain all that I’ve seen and heard? You’re an assassin!”

“Me?” A dazed look had appeared on Leonardo’s face.

“Yes!”

“ _Dio mio.”_ Leonardo’s shock seemed genuine. “Ezio, I can hardly even behead a chicken without bursting to tears. Do you really believe I could kill a human being?”

Ezio had wondered about it, himself. “Well, perhaps not the killing kind of assassin. I know that there are other kinds. My mother, for instance. I don’t think she ever killed anybody.”

At that, Leonardo’s expression turned sad. “Poor Ezio. You never truly knew your mother, did you?”

 _What the hell does that mean?_ Ezio set his jaw. “Maybe — but I’m starting to wonder whether I know you that well, either. I’ve heard you lie far too many times, as of late. Why would Paola and mother have helped you if you weren’t in the Brotherhood? You’ve never been surprised to hear of the Assassins or the Templars! I always find you tangled in the affairs of both! And you know sleight of hand and have all these... weird... skills that normal men should not have. I’m not an idiot!”

“I’m sorry to say this, Ezio, but right now, I’m not so sure of that.”

“What the _diavolo_ is that supposed to mean?”

Leonardo seemed to hesitate. Then he took a deep breath and turned toward the windows, hands clasped behind his back.

With the afternoon’s progress, a slender shaft of light had started to creep across the floor. Where it caught Leonardo’s hair and skin, it made them shimmer like gold, giving him an otherworldly, angelic appearance.

“I’m not an assassin, Ezio,” he said, as if coming to a decision. “The truth is, for years when I was a boy, I worked for Paola in _La Rosa Colta_.”

“You worked in _La Rosa Colta_? For Paola? How?”

“Think about it, Ezio.”

He did.

Had Leonardo been employed in _La Rosa_ as a servant? No, that would hardly have been worth the secrecy. And despite the close ties Paola maintained with the Assassin Brotherhood, she rarely used their services. Her girls were accomplished spies and pickpockets themselves, even though they were prostitutes — the most beautiful and seductive and skilled of their kind in Firenze —

The most beautiful and skilled — _courtesans —_

Slowly Ezio looked back to Leonardo, eyes widening.

“You,” he said. “You worked for Paola. In _La Rosa Colta.”_

Leonardo bent his neck and smiled. “ _Sì_.”

 _Not lovers. Clients._ Suddenly Ezio couldn’t get enough air.

“You were... a w-whore,” he murmured. “A whore. You were a...”

Leonardo turned toward him, frowning as if he feared Ezio might faint. The thought was not entirely unbased on reality.

“Breathe, _ragazzo._ ”

Blindly, Ezio walked to a bench and sat.

Gradually he regained control over his lungs.

“H-how?” he gasped.

Leonardo crooked his mouth into a smile. “And here I thought that you, of all men, would know how a bordello works.”

“ _Briccone._ Tell me!”

“As you wish.” Leonardo looked around, as if to ascertain that they were indeed still alone. When he started speaking, his even tone did not reveal very much about what his words elicited in him.

“I grew up in Anchiano. At thirteen, I escaped my childhood home. After a few sordid adventures, I arrived in Firenze without any money or connections to my name. I tried to find a way to support myself, but... you know how these things go, for pretty young boys without anyone to protect them.”

For a second, Leonardo seemed lost in recollection — as if he was remembering something unpleasant. Then he shrugged and continued.

“I was very lucky when Paola found me. She taught me to dress and act like a woman. And so I was put to use, the only way she had to offer. For years we maintained the public secret under the Signoria’s noses. I was good enough to make _La Rosa Colta_ a lot of coin. And when I grew into manhood and my facial hair started showing, Paola was already familiar of my other talents, and set me up as an apprentice to Verrocchio.” Leonardo smiled. “That is all there is to it, _ragazzo._ ”

For quite a while Ezio just sat where he was, too stunned to speak.

 _All there is to it?_ That had to be the understatement of the decade.

He knew that Leonardo had been born out of wedlock, and that his relationship with his father had not been a happy one. He also knew that Leonardo’s mother had been a servant. A pretty one, most likely — golden hair, blue eyes... but that was the extent of his knowledge of Leonardo’s past, aside from some amusing but essentially trivial anecdotes.

Now he knew why.

The worst part was, it was all too easy to imagine. As a boy, Leonardo must have been breathtaking. That thick dark-gold hair, grown long and braided and pinned up in heavy coils, decorated with pearls... fair skin painted and scented... boyish figure wrapped in jewelry and cleverly cut brocade that disguised his lack of female curves. And above all, his beauty not yet hardened in adulthood or rendered masculine by the growth of beard. Somehow Ezio doubted Leonardo had had to suffer the clumsiness or pimples that plagued most other young men.

It made so much sense, and yet so little, he felt like heaving.

_He must have excelled in it, like he excels in everything. He must have learned all there is to know of men’s bodies and play them like he plays the lute or the lyre._

_Or like he played me, just now._

“And — and no one recognized you, after?” he asked, mind spinning.

“I cut my hair short for years and grew a beard. Whenever maestro Verrocchio did not require me to shave, that is. And I changed a lot, growing up.”

True enough, it was almost impossible to picture Leonardo disguising himself as a woman, now, considering his height and above-average masculinity.

“And it does not bother you, to think of it?”

“I did not say that, but... I’ve made my peace with my past.”

It was not a true answer, but too many questions burned Ezio’s mind to insist on just one. “What about that bawd? Jacopo Saltarelli?”

“Ah.” Leonardo sighed. “What of him? Or others of his kind? It took me years to come to terms with the fact that it was indeed safer to live without consummating such desires as God in his kindness has chosen to bestow upon me. As a younger man, it was not always easy to hold on to such principles.”

“So... you _have_ been celibate, since.” Ezio couldn’t help his selfish sense of relief.

“Well.” A smile turned Leonardo’s mouth. He removed his left hand from behind his back and wriggled his long fingers next to his head. “Not _entirely_ celibate. I do not need release four times a day, like some, but I am still a man.”

“So, that talk of abstinence being the source of your inspiration...”

“ _Cavolata._ I had to come up with _some_ excuse for not taking up every offer of unwelcome hospitality.”

“Or the women who throw themselves at you.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Ezio, I think they just sense that I am harmless.”

Ezio, who had witnessed about a thousand longing looks and smitten sighs directed at his friend, rolled his eyes. He was relatively certain that when women looked at maestro da Vinci, they mainly sensed the wetness leaking down their thighs.

Then he frowned, realizing how he’d let himself to be led astray. He stood up.

“Why the hell did you not tell me!”

The shameless bastard had the temerity to snort. “It was none of your business. I do not need your forgiveness, or your permission to have a past. As to the question whether I have lied to you — yes, perhaps I have allowed you to remain in some manner of ignorance, but can you really blame me? You were so intent on believing it, I feared the truth would crush you. And let us not forget how _you_ lied to _me_ , Ezio. I still have to decide whether I forgive _you!_ Truly, I struggle to understand why taking money for fucking makes it less damning to you. Is it the lack of choice? I did choose, Ezio. I’m not saying it was an easy existence, but being a well-paid courtesan leaves one plenty of time to pursue other ambitions.”

The words gave Ezio pause.

Why, indeed, did he not feel more horrified? It made no sense, the idea that hundreds of men paying to have their way with Leonardo was somehow less offensive than the possibility of him having entertained a dozen lovers.

Was he still in shock? Or was he just so deeply mired in the shadow world, now, that he’d lost his ability to experience shock altogether?

“I don’t know,” he said. “Does it matter?”

“After what just happened?” Leonardo seemed exasperated. “To put it as short as I possibly can, yes!”

“Well... I’ll have to think about it, first.”

“I hope you have not forgotten that I’m about to leave Venezia soon?”

Yes. He’d utterly, completely forgotten.

“Well,” he blurted. “You won’t go, of course.”

Leonardo’s eyebrows lifted. “What? Why?”

Ezio was starting to sweat. “Because... because there’s no need. Right? Not after...”

“Oh.” Leonardo looked even more surprised. “Ezio, _caro_ , did you assume that I was leaving because of _you?_ My departure has nothing to do with you!”

Of course it didn’t. Why had he ever assumed otherwise?

After a moment of furious staring, Ezio walked past Leonardo to the bed, grabbed his breeches and started pulling them on.

“Come now, Ezio,” Leonardo said behind him. “Be reasonable.”

“No. You’re right. Go to Milano. Say hello to pretty Caterina from Forlì if she comes to pay her father a visit.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not silly!” Ezio had yanked his chausses and boots on, and turned, stabbing air between them with his finger. “I’m a cold-blooded murderer! I am not silly, I am not jealous, and —” _I most definitely am not a wet milksop who’s going to break down and cry._ He waved his hand. “Go to Milano, _amico_. In fact, how about taking little Tonio with you, to bugger him there while you’re at it? That lovestruck _moccioso_ needs very badly to get laid, and apparently, you’re more than qualified to serve.”

Leonardo shook his head, collected, if a bit nonplussed. “Ezio, you moron.”

Somehow Ezio succeeded in putting on his bracer and buckling his belt and dagger on his hips, and pulling on the sleeveless excuse of a doublet.

“ _A presto_ , maestro,” he said with a mocking bow and walked toward the door. Storming off in such a fashion required at least his usual amount of swagger, and he did his best to deliver, in spite of an inconvenient ache in a delicate place.

“Wait,” Leonardo said.

Ezio halted in his tracks.

Heart pounding, he listened to Leonardo’s footsteps. Again he was turned. Leonardo looked at him intently, as if to search for something in his desperate scowl.

Then, instead of launching into the lecture he expected, Leonardo just tugged him in so firmly that trying to resist would have felt like attempting to push back the tide.

God, but the man could kiss.

It was not only useless to pretend a lack of reaction, it would have been utterly impossible. Ezio felt as if, after being subjected to such intense pleasure, his whole being had been conditioned to yield itself to Leonardo’s will. Barely fifteen minutes had passed since he had unraveled, and now he already wanted Leonardo to bend him over the nearest piece of furniture and make him do it again. He knew it would hurt — God, would it ever — but with what Leonardo was doing to him with his hands and mouth and tongue, he found it hard to care.

But just when Ezio was starting to consider simply asking for it, Leonardo pushed him away, leaving him not entirely certain which way was up and which was down.

To his horror, the first thing he saw when his vision cleared was Leonardo quirking an eyebrow at him, almost unaffected aside from a faint flush.

“Yes, it is easy to see that you’re completely indifferent,” Leonardo said, his voice just slightly husky, and wiped his lower lip with an ink-stained thumb.

“ _Coglione,”_ Ezio gasped.

“When your head is out of your ass again, _caro,_ you’re welcome to visit me and talk.”

“The hell I will!”

“ _Non vedo l’ora._ Just don’t take too long to come to your senses. I’m leaving within the month.”

Too out of his wits to even spit a curse, Ezio turned and walked out, with considerably less grace than he’d hoped for, due to the stiff prick in his breeches.

Only after he had returned to his attic room did it occur to him to wonder whether Leonardo had just put him through a test — and whether he had passed, or failed about as abysmally as a man could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it was... the idea that got me originally writing this. I never thought it would take this long to get here. The pacing of the story is far from perfect, but that sometimes happens when you publish as you go.
> 
> You can now read "Promises to Keep" if you want.


	20. Chapter 20

Injured pride, difficulty reconciling himself with what he’d learned and bewilderment at Leonardo’s strange behavior kept Ezio’s mind occupied for two days before he found himself knocking at Leonardo’s door.

After sunset, the square in front of the bottega was deserted enough that he’d decided to chance the front entrance instead of his usual upstairs route. Somehow a touch of formality did not seem amiss. It took a while for someone to answer his knock. At last the door opened, to let through the light of a single candle and a suspicious look from Leonardo’s serving girl Giovanna. When she saw the cowled assassin behind the door, her expression transformed from openly distrustful into merely wary.

Ezio’s brows lifted. Giovanna had abandoned her usual simple servant’s attire in favor of a pretty blue gown and a white ribbon in her braided hair. He’d never seen her out of her servant’s dress before, or known that her hair was a deep, lovely auburn, or that her everyday clothes hid what now turned out to be a handsome figure.

“ _Salute, bellissima,”_ Ezio had purred before a thought chased another in his head.

Vanna’s eyes widened at the tone of his voice. Then she cast them toward the floor and fell into a curtsey.

“ _Buona sera, signore.”_

“Is your master in?”

“ _Sì, signore.”_ She stepped aside. Ezio walked in.

The workshop was quiet and dim, with shapes of paintings, pulleys, frames and other constructions looming in the dark, barely illuminated here and there by blue moonlight streaming from the upper windows and by the candle Vanna lowered to a crate. Ezio’s robes rustled softly as he walked further into the wide, cluttered room.

A great dog appeared from the shadows. Ezio offered his hand. The animal sniffed at it and wagged its tail. He stroked its wide head and turned back to look at Vanna, and pushed his hood to his neck. She had closed the door, and now stood in front of it with her hands clasped on her skirt, eyes big and dark.

“Heading out?” Ezio asked.

“Maestro is on the roof. He’s been working on something the whole day —”

“I meant you, _ragazza.”_

Ezio couldn’t see it in the dark, but from Vanna’s body language, he had a feeling she blushed prettily. _“Sì, signore.”_

“Isn’t that dangerous for a beautiful girl to do alone?”

“That is why I won’t be going alone, signore. _”_

Ezio had always considered Vanna plain. Now he realized that it was merely what she wanted him and other men to see.

He eyed her from head to toe. She was definitely not the mousy creature she sometimes appeared. Not that he didn’t understand her reasons — no wise girl, who appreciated her continued independence, trusted a man such as him closer than a pitchfork. But it wasn’t just her unexpected beauty that he’d failed to notice.

“Is something wrong, _ragazza?”_ he asked.

It was clearly hard for her to look at him. “No...”

“Come now. We’ve known each other for years.”

“It is not my place to speak, signore.”

Ezio was growing aware that it was him who had to trust her, not the other way around. Sounds carried in the silence of night. Cries in the attic were easy enough for someone sleeping in a small bed near the door to hear. He pulled to his full height.

“I insist,” he said, allowing a hint of threat to darken his voice.

Color drained from the girl’s face. “Please!” she cried. “I am glad when you come by, signore. Maestro seems happier when you have visited. He gets so lonely.”

Ezio frowned. This was not any of the replies he’d expected. “But Leonardo is never alone. His assistants, and the damned apprentices —”

“Their company does not prevent him from feeling lonely, signore.”

Ezio’s expression shifted. He’d underestimated her in more ways than he’d thought.

Leonardo obviously trusted her. And despite his occasional soft-heartedness, he was hardly an unsuspecting idiot. Not with what he’d been through. So who was Ezio to doubt the girl and question her sense of loyalty?

He gestured to her awkwardly. “ _Bene_. I apologize. May I say that you look lovely in that dress? It will be a lucky man who gets to dance with you tonight.”

Vanna paled further. When she spoke, her voice was breathless with dread. “Maestro is on the roof, I think. May I go?”

“ _Ma certo_ , do not let me keep you, _ragazza.”_

She curtseyed again and escaped toward her little chamber, stopping only to snatch up her candle on the way. The workshop fell dark and silent.

Leonardo, feeling lonely? If that was true... how self-centered did Ezio have to be not to have noticed? Then again, there were a lot of other things he hadn’t seen about Leonardo until recently, either.

Feeling vaguely ashamed of himself, Ezio walked across the wide room, soft boots leaving their marks among others in sawdust.

_What the hell is he doing on the roof?_

The studio upstairs was empty, with the usual selection of half-eaten food and empty wine cups and discarded tools lying around. Papers fluttered in a breeze, and on an easel, there was what might have been a half-finished portrait of a young woman — it was hard to tell in the dusk. A steady draft was coming from the corner. Ezio saw a ladder standing there, propped against an open hatch above the rafters, just large enough for a man to go through. He scaled it and pulled himself silently through the hatch onto a flat section of the roof.

True night had fallen. The moon was hanging above the lagoon, a thin, white crescent above Venezia’s rooftops and belfries. A forest of ship masts loomed beyond. Ezio looked up at the roof’s gable and saw a familiar tall figure standing there, lit just enough by the celestial lights to see that he was observing them through a strange, tube-shaped object, about the length of his forearm in size.

Ezio cleared his throat. “I thought you don’t like high places.”

He’d intended to speak politely, but what came out of his mouth sounded part insolent, part irritable. Leonardo started at little at his voice, then lowered the curious tool and looked down. The breezy wind tossed his hair across his face.

“A man of science cannot let a small fear prevent him.” Ezio could hear a grin in Leonardo’s voice. “Come, _scimmietta,_ take a look. The moon is very bright tonight and I have invented a way to see it even better.”

 _What now?_ Well, at least Leonardo didn’t seem angry. Although Ezio was starting to understand that sometimes that didn’t mean a damn thing.

“Moon? Isn’t it just God’s night lamp?” Forgoing a second ladder, he vaulted to the higher part of the roof and took the tool Leonardo offered with just a bit of hesitation.

“Put this end to your eye and look through it.” Leonardo indicated what he meant with his fingers. “Come now, it won’t bite. Just, whatever you do, please don’t drop it, yes? I do not know if I can afford another one very soon.”

Gingerly (and not a little dubious something bad wasn’t going to happen), Ezio did as he was told, and pointed the wooden tube toward the crescent of the moon. It took a second for him to understand what he saw on the other side, but when he did, he yanked the thing away from his eye and stepped back, startled.

“ _Madonna!_ It is about to crash to the earth!”

Leonardo laughed. “Don’t be silly, Ezio, it is just magnified.”

“What the devil is this thing?” Ezio looked at the unassuming object in his hands, all else for the moment forgotten.

“Nothing to do with the devil, _scimmietta —_ just a little invention of mine. I’ve been thinking about it for years, now. Lenses of different shapes installed at certain distances from each other. They distort light so that when it hits the eye, the size of whatever one is looking at is greatly increased, and distant objects appear as if they were close. Isn’t it marvelous? With a large enough tool such as this, one could read a book from the other end of a city, or a sailor spot distant lands over the sea...”

Ezio steeled himself against superstitious fear and looked again.

Gradually he saw strange shapes emerge from the unnaturally exaggerated belly of the moon. Peaks and valleys and wide plains, with strange pock-marks scattered everywhere.

“ _Alla faccia del mio cazzo,”_ he muttered, astonished. “How can it just hang there in the sky? Why doesn’t it fall?”

“Damned if I know!”

Ezio quirked the corner of his mouth. “Did I just hear maestro da Vinci admit that he doesn’t know everything?”

“Oh, I do have a theory about the moon. We know from Ptolemy that it is a sphere. But it is not perfectly smooth like he claimed — I’m sure you can see the _mare_ and _terrae_ on its surface, and in each case, a perfect sphere would reflect light unevenly, whereas the moon is evenly lit everywhere, and — oh, just think! What if it is a world, like ours? What if there are people there right now, looking back at us, seeing the sun’s light on the earth, and — Ezio? Why are you laughing?”

Ezio had lowered the magnifying tool and tried to control his mirth. “People on the moon! I’ve never heard anything so _pazzo!_ Is it too long since you read your Aristotle? People are creatures of chaos, they cannot live in the superlunary sphere.”

“Ezio, Aristotle lived a thousand years ago. I’m starting to suspect that you have a terribly limited mind.”

“And yours is far too big for your own good.”

Leonardo sighed, not insulted in the least. “Maybe a century or two from now, people won’t be so obtuse. They might have better lenses and clocks, too... I’d like to try and invent one, but I just don’t have the time.”

“Well, you have to support yourself. Nobody’s going to pay you for observing the sky all night long.”

“Perhaps that is something that will change in the future, as well.”

Ezio handed back the strange tube. Leonardo took it and knelt to place it in a box that lay open on the roof, tucked behind a chimney.

Ezio shook his head. “If I had my estate, I could support your moon gazing. You wouldn’t have to sell your services to some bald Milanese _condottiero_.”

Leonardo stood up. Ezio’s eyes were getting used enough to the dark to perceive the melancholy smile on his face. “Ezio, if you were a Fiorentino nobleman, you would not care for my interest in science, nor even know that I think of such things. You would be busy with your position in the bank, and we would barely even have each other’s acquaintance. In each case, I wouldn’t allow you to pay me for doing something useless.”

“It wouldn’t be useless!” Ezio gestured toward the box at their feet. “Something like this — one who had money to build a lot of these could make a great profit, yes?”

“But Ezio, I don’t care about profit. The ideas are all that matter.”

Ezio stepped closer and grabbed Leonardo by the shoulders. “No, they are not! It is people who matter, Leonardo. We might be gone any day, we must make the most of our time here.”

“But can’t you see — there’s all of _this —”_ Leonardo waved his hands to encompass the world around them. “So much more than any single man. Is it not a worthy cause, dedicating one’s life to understanding it?”

“You’re already the worthiest man I know, Leonardo. The wisest, and kindest, and most generous...” Ezio looked away and hoped that the darkness covered how he colored at his own unguarded words. “Sometimes I wonder how you find it in yourself to be so forgiving toward the world, with all the reasons it has given you to hate it.”

A moment’s silence ensued. Then Ezio felt a hand on the side of his face. Leonardo tilted his head to look at him, smiling. A callused thumb brushed its way over Ezio’s stubbled jaw.

“It is in my nature to forgive. That is the way God made me. But you... sometimes it scares me how much you have changed. And it grieves me, _scimmietta,_ that you have been treated so ill. Better for you to be that young nobleman in Firenze.”

Ezio’s breath caught in his throat.

Then he grunted, for some reason slightly embarrassed. “No, I would have made a terrible banker.”

Soft laughter burst out of Leonardo. Aside from his mother’s voice perhaps — now just a fading memory — it was the loveliest sound Ezio knew. Suddenly everything seemed clear. If Leonardo wanted him, so be it.

“I lied,” he said. “I lied when I said that I don’t love —”

Leonardo silenced him with a kiss. Ezio mumbled against his lips, then allowed the man’s warmth and touch wash over him.

“I know,” Leonardo said then, lingering close enough for their clothes to brush, a hand curled at the back of Ezio’s neck.

“You do?”

Leonardo straightened. “Oh, to be sure, I was fooled for about a minute.”

“Well, how did you, then —”

“The way you threatened to slaughter my poor erstwhile benefactors kind of gave you away.”

“Oh.” Ezio frowned. Then he collected himself and gave voice to what needed to be said. “I’m sorry. I insulted you, I had no right. It was unforgivable.”

Leonardo continued to smile. His grip shifted to Ezio’s shoulder. “Come now, _amico._ I do appreciate it that you’re willing to admit your shortcomings, but I behaved badly, too. You seem to have a much higher opinion of me than I deserve. I have my failings, I just try not to let others see them very often. And I fear that at Teodora’s, you got the worst of them. I was angry and I allowed myself to torment you unnecessarily. My only excuse is that I was not exactly at my brightest. I must apologize, too. And just in case any doubt to the contrary remains — the sentiment is mutual.”

“It is? Even after I —”

“Oh, Ezio.” Leonardo’s smile turned slightly rueful. “I’m very much afraid that you could stab me and leave me bleeding in a ditch, and I would still love you.”

An understanding started to expand in Ezio’s chest. It had been there for God knew how long, now he just saw it clearly for the first time.

For years and years, he’d been convinced that Leonardo was perfect — so much above everyone else that he could barely be understood, let alone understand others. And yes, Leonardo was all the things he’d said. Wise, and kind, and generous to a fault. What Ezio had failed to see was that he was also human. He had desires, he was proud, he could make mistakes and act churlishly like anyone else. He just kept a much tighter leash on his faults than most. Only someone who deeply understood his own shortcomings could keep them so well hidden. Perhaps it was that knowledge of his own fallibility that made him so forgiving toward others?

For the first time Ezio felt like he understood Leonardo. And he knew that he could trust the man. More than he’d ever trusted anyone outside his immediate family. For someone who could no longer even walk among people without wearing a mask of some sort, that kind of unguarded trust was like being able to breathe again.

“Well, then,” he said. “What next? You’re going away soon, and —”

“If you ask me to stay, I will,” Leonardo said.

 _He would. He would do it._ For a moment the temptation was almost too much.

Then Ezio shook his head.

“No. I don’t know your reasons, but I think I have an idea. And I can’t ask you to throw away everything. Not for my sake. Not when so much depends on... both of us doing our part.” He looked away.

Leonardo was silent for a moment. “It’s just Milano. Not the other side of the world,” he said then.

Ezio shook his head. He didn’t want to start thinking about how many _mille_ and hostile borders separated Venezia from where Leonardo was going.

“I won’t ask you not to live freely,” he continued. “I have no right to make demands of you, no right to — even if I wished —” He shrugged awkwardly. “Well. I would have you find happiness where you can. God knows you deserve it.”

Leonardo’s fingers had been resting on his shoulder. Now they slid back up, to the side of his face, and encouraged him to tilt up his head.

“But Ezio,” Leonardo said. “Can’t you see? I am already happy.”

And then Leonardo leaned back to him, and there it was, that breathless urgency. The scratch of Leonardo’s beard on his face, the soft wide lips and sweet breath, and strength tempered by gentleness. His arms went around Leonardo’s waist, and he couldn’t have cared less who kissed who and whether he was yielding in a manner unsuitable for a nobleman.

“I gave Vanna the night off,” Leonardo said against his mouth, after a time.

“I know,” Ezio murmured.

“You want to go back in?”

“Well... I do remember something about a list...”

Leonardo snorted. “Oh, _that_ list? You might yet regret throwing yourself to the mercies of my imagination. I’ve had it from reliable sources that it is far better than the average.”

Ezio tightened his grip. “Are you sure it is me who should be scared, _vecchio?”_

“Scared? No. I was thinking more along the lines of...” Leonardo pressed his mouth to Ezio’s neck. “Complete... and utter... degradation.”

Ezio groaned. He knew now that Leonardo, if anyone, was capable of carrying out such a threat.

He wasn’t sure if it still mattered to him how those skills had come to be. Ezio was a creature of his upbringing, the same as everyone. But he was not conceited enough to lie to himself about what the memory of Leonardo’s abilities and the anticipation of more did to him. If it degraded him, so be it. There were certainly worse fates than being degraded a little by the gentlest man he knew. Especially if the end result was so mind-bending.

When a hot tongue traced a path up Ezio’s neck, he swallowed. “Um... I think we should go inside. Otherwise...” He shivered at a gentle bite. “I’m not sure I can get down from this roof without becoming mortally hurt...”

Leonardo purred a laugh in his ear. _“L’ombra bianca_ , falling to his death because of me? I’m flattered.”

“You won’t be so flippant the next time you need someone to pull your arse out of a scrape and I’m in an early grave.”

“No, I don’t imagine I will. You can be a very useful person to know in a scrape.”

“Then again, half the scrapes you have gotten yourself into are because of me...”

“To create perfection, one must apply shadow as well as light.” Leonardo pulled up to look at him. “I still find it hard to believe that this isn’t all just a dream, you know.”

“You do? I will have to work very hard to make you believe it, then.”

Leonardo laughed.

They did make it down from the roof, eventually. But not all the way to the bed — not the first time around.

o o o

_**Epilogue** _

_**Repubblica Fiorentina 1519** _

One afternoon in early September, when Ezio was working in the vineyard, his son came running to tell him that a courier was waiting for his convenience at the yard.

On returning to the villa, Ezio found a man who only spoke a few basic words of Dante’s Italian. He handed over a large leather-wrapped package and explained in French that it was from Clos Lucé. Ezio offered him a place to stay overnight, but he declined. Mounting his horse, he rode away, down the cypress-lined road that meandered into the lush, gold-green valley and beyond.

Later, back in his _scrittoio_ , Ezio opened the package and found within a thick pile of drawing sheets and a brief letter that boiled down to ‘he wanted you to have these.’

About half an hour later, there was a knock from the door. It was Sofia, back from her bookshop in the city. She’d washed up and changed into a green silk gown that accentuated everything Ezio had always liked about her appearance. Well, everything that could be revealed by a perfectly respectable noblewoman’s attire, that is. Normally he would have said as much, but now he was too distraught, even if he did not allow for it to show.

“I heard that a French courier came by,” his wife said. “What was that about?”

“Old sketches of Leonardo’s,” Ezio replied, waving at his desk and the papers and vellum scattered on it. “Sent to me by his assistant, Count Melzi.”

Just like he’d feared, Sofia’s eyes brightened at once with curiosity. She was a learned woman, a patron of the arts, and still lamented the fact that she’d never had a chance to meet Ezio’s famous friend. Leonardo had for years engaged in correspondence with her and often wrote that he would like to paint her, but it had been that German, Dürer, who had immortalized her beauty instead.

Ezio had no choice. He had to show her. Anything else would have insulted her intelligence.

The drawings were as they had been years ago, just a bit more yellowed with time. Nothing indecent or damning — risking either of them with such foolishness wasn’t something Leonardo would have indulged in. Anything explicit Ezio had ever seen in his household had been scribbled by one of his apprentices. Usually Salaì. The little _briccone_ had made his mark here, too, with funny hats and exaggerated male members scrawled on top of a couple of Leonardo’s exquisite drawings. However, that did not mean there weren’t a number of sketches that showed a lot of skin. In some, Ezio wore little but his smile.

“These are wonderful,” Sofia said, marveling at the things as he leafed through them for her, her warm hand on his shoulder and her familiar presence beside his chair. “I now understand how you made your reputation as a young man. You were quite the sight.”

“I were? And what am I now? An old, tired raven?”

“Old and tired, _tesoro?”_ She smiled sweetly. “Vain is what you are. Or do I need to remind you of Pasqua?”

The newest of Sofia’s many friends, a wickedly clever noblewoman from the city, with a very well developed bosom. Ezio had flirted with her outrageously while she’d stayed in the villa for a few weeks the past summer.

He took Sofia’s hand and kissed it. “Forgive me, _bellissima._ I am vain. But it is only because I’m married to the most beautiful woman in Firenze and grow afraid of not being able to compare.”

“You’re impossible. And very entertaining.” She looked at the papers again.

It didn’t escape him that, as the drawings progressed, she grew increasingly silent and thoughtful.

“He admired you a great deal,” she said, after a while.

Ezio shifted in his chair. “Well, he was like a brother to me.”

“I think he saw in you more than that,” Sofia said.

“Mm-hmm,” Ezio mumbled. He was far too old to blush, so surely what he felt on his face was just the autumn warmth?

“Dear husband, I believe that the great Leonardo da Vinci was once very much in love with you,” she said, very carefully.

“Well,” Ezio muttered, “Such things happen sometimes, even between men.”

He’d reached the end. The most recent sketch was of him in _château_ Clos Lucé, sitting in a windowed alcove in his grey robes, an aging man with a hawkish profile and a full head of shorn grey hair. But Sofia was not looking at the drawing. Instead, she watched him in a silence that made him sweat under her penetrating gaze.

Ezio couldn’t believe that she’d seen in five minutes what had once taken him six years and a lot of not-so-oblique hints to understand. Why on earth had he married such a keen-minded woman?

Well, why indeed? Perhaps because he loved her? And because she was not only beautiful, but wise, brave and understanding?

Just like a certain other person he’d used to know.

He knew her too well to believe she’d condemn him for much. That did not mean he wanted to share everything with her. Not because of fear of embarrassment. How could he feel embarrassed of having loved someone who in so many respects had been above all others? And he’d never done anything behind her back (in thirty years, passion had a way of cooling, and after marrying her he had remained faithful). It was simply a matter of not all secrets being his to tell.

In a way, Sofia’s presence in his life was in itself Leonardo’s doing. It was Leonardo who had convinced Ezio to marry in his old age. And it was Sofia who had consoled Ezio when he’d learned of Leonardo’s passing. Thus, even after his death, Leonardo seemed to aid him.

What Sofia saw in his face, Ezio did now know. She did not harass him with unwelcome questions. She just sighed and leaned to kiss him.

“The dinner will be served in half an hour, _tesoro.”_

When she was gone, Ezio found himself wondering how much (or how little) in his life had been decided by chance.

Had he not once been eating in that Veneziano tavern when the gondolier started spouting filth about Leonardo, would he ever have discovered the truth about Leonardo’s feelings — or even more so, his own? Maybe as old men in Clos Lucé, there might have been confessions, when they could no longer change much. And perhaps Ezio would have felt a strange regret, hearing that Leonardo had once longed for more and kept his silence.

Or perhaps not. After all, human beings molded themselves to circumstance, and lied to themselves about how all things happened for a reason — lies that, in time, became to them like truth.

In the grand scheme of things, their mutual passion had made little difference. They weren’t free to choose where and how they lived, or with whom. What fidelity they had felt toward each other could only be spiritual in nature. Ezio had his women, and in his later years, Leonardo, too, had taken other lovers, when he’d grown so secure in wealth and reputation that he’d had little to fear from anyone. Ezio had tolerated the no-nonsense young Melzi and detested the angelic, self-absorbed Salaì, and amused himself by making both regularly piss themselves with terror. If either apprentice had shown signs of not adoring their master, Ezio would have done much worse, but they remained loyal — and Ezio had no misconceptions of how selfish it would have been to expect Leonardo to grow old alone.

Seemed that jealousy, just like passion and unyielding principles, mellowed with age.

In his solitude, Ezio picked a few sketches from the pile. The one where he was sleeping in his father’s robes in the Fiorentino bottega, a boy with murder in his mind, yet to kill a man. Another from Monteriggioni, now a full-fledged killer, the simple garb and lack of weapons a disguise that barely concealed his true nature. Yet another where years and hardship were starting to show in the lines of his face, laughing as if at something Leonardo had said — perhaps from Rome, when he’d been rebuilding the Assassin Order in the shadow of the Borgias? Somehow Leonardo had managed to capture both the weight on his shoulders and his fleeting levity. Even at the worst of times, Leonardo had always known how to make him laugh.

Ezio couldn’t recall where and when many of the sketches had been made. His memory was not what it had been. It no longer bothered him. Men’s minds faded for a reason. Such memories were not meant to be preserved forever.

He knew that he would eventually destroy Leonardo’s drawings. He’d ask Sofia to burn them after his passing (which he trusted her to do, even if it pained her), or do it himself if he could feel the end coming. Of the two of them, it was Leonardo that history should remember. And remember him the way he’d wanted: an inventor, a man of science and an artist, not a sordid curiosity.

Ezio would die like he’d lived. In the shadows.

What had happened between them belonged to them, not to history. And if all evidence of it only existed in their minds, what kind of sorcery could unearth the past to be gawked at by strangers — a possibility Leonardo had so vehemently despised? Ezio owed it to him to make sure that never happened.

He wrapped the drawings in the leather sheath and placed it in the coffer where he kept his papers. After locking it, he left the _scrittoio_ , to join his wife and children at their evening meal.

~FIN~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is, folks. This is particularly important to me since TLE is the first novel length text I've finished in twenty years. Couldn't have done it without you guys -- the kudos and comments and tumblr messages kept me going through the hard spots, and got me back writing after that four month hiatus last year.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope it gave you at least a little bit of the joy I received from writing it.


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